Seasons
by Cassandra4
Summary: After the war, the Gundam pilots and those they met struggle to regain their lives. Separate storylines develop and slowly come together. Deep, heavy character analysis, humor, and romance. (PG for *very* mild language)
1. Nightmare

**_Seasons_**

_Chapter One: Nightmare_****

Duo awoke sweating, breathing hard, tangled in his sheets.

He lay in bed for a few moments, catching his breath.  When his heart rate had returned to normal, he rolled onto his side and glanced at the clock.  5:28 AM.  His subconscious had let him oversleep tonight.

With a sigh, he carefully stood up and walked to his closet to get dressed.  Weeks of practice had allowed him to do so almost silently so as not to wake Hilde.  He tiptoed into the hall, holding his breath out of habit as he passed Hilde's room.  Only as he glanced inside and saw her carefully made bed did he remember she had left even earlier on a business trip.

He made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen to get some breakfast.  Not willing to risk his chances attempting to cook anything, he settled for some cereal.  He barely tasted it as he thought back to all the mornings spent like this; how many had it been?  Too many, he was sure--it couldn't be normal to wake up like this, at such an ungodly hour, every day for weeks on end.

The first few times he had woken up, he had distracted himself by futilely attempting to go back to sleep.  After a week or so, however, he had had to accept that once he woke up, sleep wasn't going to come back, and he had been forced to dwell on the reason for his interrupted sleep until the artificial lights of the L2 Colony went on.

It had started early January.  After coming back in December from fighting again, he had been relieved, tired, happy.  He had thought it was finally over.  The Gundams were gone for good, the war was over, he could stop fighting, he could enjoy life, he was ready to adjust, to be normal.

Yet the nightmares had started less than a month after the end of the Gundams, night after night, never offering him a reprieve.  They weren't always the same, of course.  Sometimes he dreamt of war happening again in the future.  Sometimes, like tonight, he dreamt of vague memories--Heero self-destructing, Hilde wounded on Peacemillion, all the memories of grief and anxiety he had collected.  Often, he dreamt of the Zero system.  But one nightmare haunted him more often than the rest.

It would start like a memory of a battle.  He would be in Deathscythe against a fair number of mobile suits, high on adrenaline, with nothing in his mind but sheer rage.  It was better that way, of course; no room for terror, guilt, mourning, only the mission.  At last, there would be one mobile suit left.  He would raise his scythe to it--it was time for Shinigami to claim another prize.  He would swing.

And in that moment, he would feel too clearly the terror of his foe, would see through his enemy's eyes the symbol of death coming closer, feel the heat of the weapon as it shattered his mobile suit, hear his own screams echoing in his head, feel his body ripped to shreds.  And then he would wake up, unable to comfort himself by saying it was only a dream, because it wasn't--it was real, had always been real, would always be real, and nothing could change that.

Duo stood up and put his bowl in the sink; he would wash it later.  He looked out the window at the lightening sky, mimicking a sunrise, and thought of the other pilots.  As far as Duo knew, Trowa was still with his circus troupe, Wufei was with the Preventers, and Quatre was working on L4, frequently making front page news.  Duo didn't know where Heero was.  None of them had spoken since December.

It saddened him to think that all they had been through together, all the pain and battles and even joyous victory, at the end, was all worth nothing to them.  After all that, could they still be just fellow pilots, barely even allies, certainly not friends?

Apparently, yes.  Duo sighed and headed to the living room.  Maybe he would listen to some music, the Beatles perhaps, to relax himself.  As he left the kitchen, he thought again of his nightmare, now a vivid memory, and almost collapsed to his knees.

'Why can't you leave me alone, dammit?' he raged silently.  'Why can't I leave it alone?'

*             *             *

Heero couldn't remember, later, whether it was the smoke or the yelling that woke him up.  Either way, as he lay on his back with his eyes watering from the smoke, he realized he had no desire to get up.

He debated with himself for a while.  It would be so easy; he could just lie there and let the smoke fill his lungs until he asphyxiated.  He wouldn't even be conscious to feel the flame consume him.  What was there to hold him back?  Faces flashed in his mind—sandy hair and gentle smile; emerald eyes hidden under unruly bangs; cheerful grin and crazy braid; scowling jet-black eyes; golden hair, intense blue eyes—he pushed those thoughts away.  He could only burden them by staying.

That was what it all came down to, in the end.  It would be best for everyone if he let the fire take him.  Maybe it was a sign.

Heero wondered vaguely if asphyxiation was very painful.  Perhaps he should open his door, let the smoke in, make it quicker.  From the direction of the voices, it seemed everyone else was already out of the building.  If he opened the door, no one would get hurt.

He decided to keep the door closed.  Maybe he could go to sleep, and just never wake up.  He closed his eyes, but the screams outside were too loud to let him sleep.  He could hear relief mingled with pain and panic.  One woman seemed more anguished then the rest.  Through the ever-louder crackle of flames, he could make out some of her words—she wanted to go back inside and get what she had left.

This irritated Heero.  She was safe, no one was hurt, and this woman was willing to risk, if not lose, her life for material possessions?  Was she really that shallow?

Just then, another sound reached his ears, a thin, high-pitched wail—a baby.  Suddenly, the woman's plight made sense.  Without thinking, he sprang out of bed and raced out of his room, barely noticing the scalding doorknob.

In the hallway, the smoke burned his eyes and throat.  Instinctively, he pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth.  After concentrating a bit, he could make out the direction of the baby's cries—it was upstairs.  He ran to the stairwell and up the stairs, two at a time.

Heero paused briefly to locate the baby's room, then hurried to it.  As long as the baby was still crying, that meant it had a chance.  The screams grew louder as he neared it.

The baby was yelling in its crib when he arrived, its tiny face red with exertion.  Heero swiftly picked it up and held it firmly, ignoring its pitiful kicks.  He returned to the stairwell in time to see the stair collapse.  Cursing under his breath, he searched desperately for another way out.  He couldn't jump out a window four stories high, not with a baby in his arms.  His only alternative was to climb down, but could he do it?

There was no time to think.  He climbed over the railing and lowered himself gently.  He let go for a second, grabbed on to the bottom, let his legs dangle, swung them, and leaped to the next for.  He sighed in relief.  One down, two to go.

The baby's cries were weakening.  Heero looked at it and saw its face was turning pale.  _It's lungs can't handle the smoke,_ Heero realized.  _At this rate, it'll die._  He looked out the window.  Three floors.  Could he make it?

The baby coughed, and Heero made his decision.  He remembered a tree outside his room, and headed back.  He fumbled with the windowsill, trying to unlatch it with one hand.  At last he opened it.  Using his bed to raise himself, he climbed out the window and stood precariously on the ledge.  He reached with his free hand, but even the nearest branch was too far.

He could hear the floor collapsing behind him.  Slowly, painstakingly, he took off his jersey, struggling to hold the baby.  When it was off, he reached again to the branches, using his shirt as a lasso.  It made it to the branch.  He jumped as the ledge he had been standing on crumbled, swung his legs around the trunk, and pulled himself to sit on a sturdy branch.  He then climbed down slowly, wishing he had worn shoes to sleep.

When he had made it to solid ground, he wanted nothing more then to sit and rest his weary body, but he had to find the baby's mother.  He scanned the crowd, and located her.

She was doubled over in sobs.  Her husband was trying to comfort her while fighting down his own tears.

"Honey, I'm sorry, but I _couldn't_ let you stay, you would've died, I'm so sorry—"

SMACK!  She slapped him across the face.

Heero tapped her on the shoulder.  "Excuse me, ma'am, is this your baby?"

She looked at him as if he were her savior, an angel sent from heaven, eyes wide open in gratitude and shock.  Crying from joy now, she took the baby from him, and tried in vain to stutter her thanks.

He gave her a small smile.  "Think nothing of it," he said before walking away.  He put his tattered shirt back on and wondered where to go.  He didn't think long before deciding on the nearest bank, and then a shoe store.

It wasn't until much later that he truly realized he hadn't died.

*             *             *

"Hey, Jude," Duo sang.  "Don't make it bad, take a sad so-o-ong, and make it—"

RIIING!  RIIING!

Duo paused his CD player and ran into the kitchen to pick up the phone.  "Hello, who's there?"

"Duo?"

Duo breathed in sharply.  He hadn't heard that voice in weeks, but there was no mistaking it.  "Heero?"

"Yeah."

"Well, hey!  How've you been?"

"Fine, I guess.  And you?"

Duo remembered briefly his restless nights and haunting dreams, but, as he always did during the day, he ignored it.  "I'm good.  So, what's up?"

"My building burned down."

He said it so matter-of-factly that Duo was more shocked than he might have been otherwise.  "Oh, man, I'm sorry, Heero."

"It's okay.  No one was hurt."  
  


"But all your stuff is gone."

"I didn't have anything irreplaceable."

"Well, that's good, I guess."  Silence.  "So, where're you going to stay?"

"I don't know."

"Stay here!"

"Huh?"

"Come and stay with me.  That's why you called, isn't it?"

Heero paused.  "I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know why I called.  I felt I needed to call someone, and you were the first person I thought of."

"How'd you find my number?"

"Phone book."

"Oh.  Right."  Duo gave an embarrassed laugh.  "So, you going to come or what?"

"What?"

"Ah, come on, Heero!  Please?  It'll be fun!"

"Won't Hilde mind?"

"She's on a business trip.  Come on, please?"

"Okay," Heero said, as if he were the one doing the favor.

"Great!  Call me as soon as you get your tickets so I can meet you at the airport, okay?"

"Alright.  And—thank you."

"No prob!  After all, what are friends for?  Well, see ya!"

"Good-bye."

CLICK!  They hung up.

************************************************************************************

Notes:  Well, what did you think?  Feedback is greatly appreciated [translation: PLEASE E-MAIL ME! I'M BEGGING YOU!]  and can be sent to romancherubX@aol.com.

Disclaimer:  Gundam Wing and all related characters are property of Sontsu Agency, Bandai Studios and TV Asahi.  The fic "Seasons" is copyright Cassandra Lupos 2001, please don't post it anywhere without asking.  Oh, yes, I didn't write the lyrics Duo was singing, they were from the Beatles song "Hey Jude," and the Beatles wrote them.


	2. Control

**_Seasons_**

_Chapter Two: Control_

Relena leaned back in her chair, glad to be finished with paperwork for the day. Closing her eyes, she allowed her mind to wander, and her thoughts settled on Heero.

She sighed. It was the first time in quite a while she had thought of him. That in itself, she reasoned, was evidence enough that she didn't love him. But she had known that for quite some time.

She always felt a bit embarrassed when she remembered how she had chased after Heero during the war. Looking back, she could see how stupid, how foolish, how terribly obnoxious she'd been. She should have left him alone, dismissed him as an ordinary teenage crush.

But Heero wasn't ordinary, and Relena was certain that what she felt for him—what she had felt for him—was different, as well. It was infatuation, bordering on obsession, even, but it was not a crush.

At first, it had been his mystery that had drawn her to him, she guessed. He was exciting, unknown, a welcome relief from the ordinary world she inhabited, even if he was dangerous. When her father—Relena always thought of him as her father, not Peacecraft—had died, she had looked to Heero for strength and support, craving his strength, his will, his determination. And she had been touched by his promise to protect her, something she still hadn't deciphered the cause behind; after all, he didn't love her any more than she loved him.

Maybe she had wanted to protect him, too, idiotic as the notion may have been. He had been hurt—she could see that clearly, though it seemed impossible to imagine Heero letting anyone hurt him. She didn't want him to be hurt anymore. That wasn't love, though, was it?

The part of her that was still untouched by war, that, even after all she'd been through, was still just a teenage girl, had to admit her fixation with Heero had been partially physical. It was hard to resist his deep, intense eyes, strong yet slender body, soft, unruly hair… _Stop this,_ she ordered herself. _You sound like a star struck groupie._

Relena stood up and decided to head to the nearby indoor tennis courts. She had taken a liking to tennis recently, finding it a great way to relieve stress and take her mind off things, especially things that were only wistful memories from the war, things with beautiful angry eyes that never smiled.

* * *

Dorothy surveyed the street. It was a wide avenue in a well-to-do neighborhood, with sparkling windows, tidy storefronts, clean sidewalks, and well-kept cars making their way through town or parked near the buildings.

She could not figure out why she had come back here, after so long, so close to her. Though maybe it was because of her that Dorothy had returned, because of that strange magnetism that she possessed.

Dorothy strolled through the last of the winter snow. On the surface, this suburb of the nation's capital seemed perfect and orderly, a town where no hair was ever out of place, no clothes were wrinkled, no speck of dirt ever survived long enough to tarnish the shining perfection. She longed to expose the filth beneath the surface.

Of course, there was filth. The town was so perfect, there was probably more than in other places. It was a curious irony that the cleaner anything seemed, the dirtier it often was. The Gundam pilots were the perfect example. They had a shining wholesomeness in their faces that masked the souls of killers.

She wasn't like that. No, she was the exception to the rule, a girl who had refused completely to adapt to the hypocritical world of politics. She was so honest, so pure, so simple, so straightforward, it was sickening and touching.

A stray dog limped along the street. Its fur was matted and dirty, and it carried its many scars like medals of honor. Dorothy marveled at the contrast between it and the street. She raised her camera, adjusted the lens, and pressed the shutter.

CLICK!

Dorothy smiled. The dog was now frozen in time on her roll of film. It was one of the things she loved about photography, being able to capture anything in a picture and control it so that it was almost like she was creating her own miniature world. She liked the feeling of power and control.

A round-faced, impeccably dressed little boy, around eleven years old, ran out of an antique shop. He saw the dog and started walking toward it. Dorothy raised her camera again, recognizing a perfect photo opportunity.

The kid crowded down and beckoned to the dog, who raised hoping, skeptical eyes to him.

CLICK!

Looking around to make sure his parents weren't in sight, the kid kneeled in the snow with open arms. So much for impeccably dressed.

CLICK!

The dog walked slowly toward the boy, sniffed him, and finally allowed itself to be sheltered in his arms. The dirt on its fur rubbed off on the boy's shirt, hair, and smiling face.

CLICK!

A woman came out of the antique shop and looked up and down the street. She was dressed in an expensive white coat trimmed with soft fake fur. As soon as she saw the boy, her face clouded in disapproval, and she marched over to him, yanked him up by the arm forcefully, taking care not to dirty her coat.

CLICK!

The boy protested, but the woman—his mother, perhaps—triumphed, and she walked on with him at her heels. Unknown to her, however, the dog was following them, much to the boy's delight.

CLICK!

Dorothy lowered her camera. She had seen enough to expose the filth beneath the gleaming surface, and the purity beneath the filth. Satisfied, she walked along the uphill path. When she reached the top, she faced, as she had known she would, a view of the palace.

The palace was serene and lovely. It lacked the weathered, haunted looked of older castles, and instead projected a modern, wholesome beauty, reflecting that of its chief inhabitant. The snow was somehow incapable of mixing with mud and turning to slush on its well-kept, extensive grounds, and instead covered the rose bushes, grassy lawns, and now-bare trees like powdered sugar. It was a castle out of a fairy tale, perfect for its princess.

Dorothy wondered if she would pay her a visit. What for? To taunt, to mock, to infuriate as before? No. The war was over, and the lust for battle had died in her, though the desire for control had not, she acknowledged, remembering her camera. If she did visit her, it would be to befriend. It was a laughable idea, but true.

Dorothy made her decision and raised her camera. She wanted to remember the palace as it looked from afar, lovely and unreal. What she would think of it later, she could not be sure.  _I'm coming to pay you a visit, Vice Foreign Minister Darilan,_ she thought.  _Are you ready?_

CLICK!

*             *             *

As she walked onto the tennis courts to meet her instructor, Relena looked like she had just stepped off the cover of a sports magazine: she was dressed in sparkling tennis whites, with her hair held up in a casual ponytail, and holding her perfectly-kept tennis racket, which she had just taken out of its Gucci cover.

She had begun tennis lessons in early January and had found it stimulating and calming all at once. She enjoyed the feeling of pushing her body to its limits, the heightened awareness that came once she had begun playing, the intense focus that pushed all other thoughts away, the relaxed exhaustion that started early on but was only noticed at the end.

"Good morning, Vice Foreign Minister," her coach, a dark-haired man in his twenties named Anthony Livingston.

Relena waved the title away. "Please, Tony: we've known each other long enough to drop the formalities. Call me Relena. Or," she added with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, "I shall be forced to Coach Livingston. Or worse--Coach Anthony."

He made a face; Tony detested his last name, and his first name even more. "With that threat, I guess I've got no choice, Relena. So, what are we working on today?"

She sighed. "I don't feel like improving my technique today."

"Okay, then," he said agreeably. "Let's play." He served the ball.

Relena dashed in its direction, swung, and felt the satisfaction of connecting smoothly with the ball. Before long, she had worked herself into a soothing rhythm. Run, swing, thwack! Run, swing, thwack! Over and over. Run, swing, thwack!

The rhythm soon became automatic, and her mind started to wander. She wondered where Heero was now, if he was alright, if he was even alive. A chill went up her spine as she contemplated the possibility of his death.  _Heero!_ she cried mentally.

Run, swing, miss!

Tony said nothing, only served another ball. She forced herself to relax, to chase after the fuzzy yellow sphere, to stop thinking about Heero. _You came out here to forget about him, so stop it already!_ she scolded herself.  _Besides, he's Heero, he can't be dead, he can't be! Oh, God, please no!_

_If it bothers you so much, just track him down and ask him if he's okay!_ another part of her brain shouted. She could, of course. She was one of the most powerful officials on the Earth or in the Colonies, it was only natural that she could find anyone she wanted, why didn't she, just to see him one more time, she would give anything, and she wouldn't have to give anything, why not, it was so close….

Run, swing, miss!

"You're not concentrating," Tony called out.

Relena was silent. No, she hadn't been. But she would now. She would concentrate, she would play, she would stop thinking about Heero if it killed her.  _Get over it.  He's gone.  Let go._

Run, swing, thwack! Run, swing, thwack!

_I. Don't._

Run, swing--

_Love. Heero!_

THWACK!

********************************************************************************

Notes: And thus concludes Chapter Two. As usual, any and all feedback can be sent to romancherubX@aol.com, and is much appreciated. As always, Gundam Wing and all related characters belong to Sontsu Agency, Bandai Studios, and TV Asahi. The fic "Seasons" is copyright 2001 Cassandra Lupos; please don't repost without asking. No, I don't own Gucci. Ha, I wish….;)


	3. Time

**_Seasons_**

_Chapter Three: Time___

__

Une was tired.  It had been a long day.  She had taken Mariemaia shoe shopping, and that, of course, had been an adventure.  The had struggled for hours until at last, too drained to fight anymore, they had managed to agree on a nice-looking pair of sneakers, white with purple stripes, that was also comfortable, durable, and reasonably priced, and which Mariemaia had insisted on wearing immediately.

Afterwards, they had gone out for ice cream.  Mariemaia had had rocky road, as she always did, and Une had given in to the allure of French vanilla.  Then they had walked home in the fading twilight, Mariemaia skipping lightly in her new sneakers, still testing her legs--after all, it had only been two weeks since the operation.  Une had walked along beside her, fighting to stay awake, glad to be going home.

Now Mariemaia was in her bath, and Une was relaxing in an armchair in her living room.  It felt nice to sit, and not do anything, in a home that was constant.  Her time in the war had made her accustomed to moving around, and she would again, later, with the Preventors, but for now she was content to take a well-deserved break.

"Lady!" came a voice from upstairs.  "I need you to tuck me in!"

Une smiled.  "Coming, Mariemaia!"  She stood up and walked upstairs to find the little girl waiting patiently for her in the hall, dressed in purple pajamas.

"You'll catch a cold if you keep forgetting to wear your slippers," Une reprimanded, seeing the young girl's bare feet.

Mariemaia paid no heed to this, but took Une's hand and pulled her toward Mariemaia's bedroom.  Une tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and waited by her bed until the child's eyes closed and she fell asleep.

Une cautiously tiptoed out of the room, leaving the door open just a crack.  She felt, somehow, that tonight would be a good night, that Mariemaia's cries of "Lady, Lady, help!" wouldn't wake her in the middle of the night and make her rush to her bedside to comfort the girl, to hold her tight and tell her it was okay, nightmares weren't real.

When Mariemaia had first come to live with her, every night had been like that, but after many repeated assurances that it hadn't been Mariemaia's fault, that those soldiers had fought meaningless battles for Dekim Barton, not her, Mariemaia had started sleeping soundly and smiling more often, and Une had started worrying less.  Mariemaia still never laughed, but perhaps that was to be expected: she couldn't be expected to heal completely in so short a time--it was hard to believe it was only February--and besides, Treize had rarely laughed.

In those nights of tears and sobs that lasted long past midnight, Une had often comforted Mariemaia with tales of her father.  She would tell Mariemaia her father had believed in forgiveness for mistakes, because mistakes were human and Treize had loved and believed in and even fought for human nature.  Maybe Une was saying these things to comfort herself, as well, and to remind herself that Treize's ideals still lived, haunting her like welcome ghosts.

Une didn't feel like going to bed right away, wishing instead to sit with her ghosts a bit longer, not quite ready to let go.  She walked downstairs and returned to her armchair, picking up and unfolding the newspaper.

Why was she trying to read?  The words seemed to blur on the pages, transforming into jumbled symbols that made no sense.  But wait--there an advertisement that caught her eye.  She forced her eyes to focus.

She drew a sharp breath.  Could it possibly be?  It would be too coincidental, wouldn't it?  It couldn't be the same one--but look, there was his name, even; she froze with the shock of recognition.

In the morning, she decided, she would have to speak with Mariemaia about it.  Perhaps they could make time over the weekend.

She folded her newspaper and stood up to get ready for bed.  Quite suddenly, she couldn't wait for morning to come.

*             *             *

"It's nice to see the Earth again," Trowa remarked.

Catherine nodded.  "The Colonies are wonderful, but the Earth calls me to it--calls everyone, I think.  Mother Earth--the title really suits it, doesn't it?"

Trowa nodded.  "Yeah.  How long are we staying?"

"I think a month or so," Catherine told him.  "Two stops."

"Mmm."

She turned to face him.  "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he said quickly, smiling at her with sad, beautiful eyes.

She placed her hands on her hips.  "You should know by now that it's useless lying to your sister."

He did know, of course, but that didn't stop him from trying.  "I'm fine," he said, smiling more brightly.

"I don't believe you," she said.  "What's bothering you?"  When he said nothing, she added, "Tell me or I'll keep bugging you about it."

"I just..." he started.  He looked up at the sky.  Somewhere, he knew, the Colonies were rotating out in space.  The Gundam pilots were out there, too.

"Go on," Catherin said gently.

"I guess I..." he trailed off again.

He could have called them, any of them.  Maybe not Heero, but the rest.  It wouldn't have been hard, just pick up the phone and dial, or write them an e-mail, even a letter.

Catherine's soft violet eyes were looking at him patiently.  He had to say something.

"I miss them.  The others.  The Gundam pilots."

She nodded, as if she had been expecting him to say that.

"Sometimes," he continued, speaking slowly, "I want to talk to them.  Call them, maybe."

"But you don't," she said.

"No.  I don't."  He looked at her, returning her gaze.

"You know, Trowa," she said, "sometimes people want things they're not ready for."

His expression turned quizzical.

"What I mean is, sometimes we need to distance ourselves from things before becoming close again.  Live life without them without before we can let them in our lives."

"I see," Trowa said.  "You're right.  Seeing them agian, now, would be too painful."  He spoke calmly, analytically, as if he were rattling off basic facts of mathematics.  "I understand that, but even so..."

"I know," she said.  "It's hard.  Your brain understands that."

"Yeah," he said.

They were silent for a while, feeling the earthly breeze blow playfully.

"Sometimes," Trowa broke the silence, "I wonder if I'll ever be able to really feel again.  Now, all I feel is empty.  Occasionally I feel better or worse, but it's like a charade."

"You will, Trowa," Catherine said.  "And then, maybe you can go back to them.  But not now.  Not yet.  No matter how much you want to.  Give it time."

Trowa didn't say anything.

"Hey," she said.  "Whatcha thinking?"

"I'm just being glad I have you for a sister," he said.

"Awww," she said, putting an arm around his shoulders and giving him a quick hug.  "For a guy who's blocked out all emotions, both positive and negative, as an instinctive self-defense mechanism, you sure can be sweet sometimes."

Trowa groaned.  "Don't tell me you've been reading psychology magazines again."

"They're very popular nowadays," she informed him.  "Besides, just think of all the money I'm saving you in therapy bills!"

He laughed.  "You're too much."

It was an empty, pointless, automatic jest, a sort of game they played, but pleasing all the same, like junk food.

"What would you think of me pursuing a career as a psychoanalyst?" she said.

He pretended to consider this.  "Well, let me put it this way: don't quit your day job."

"Yeah, I guess I'd better not," she agreed.  "If I did, who would make you soup?"

"On second thought, psychoanalysts probably get paid better anyway," he said.

"Oh, come on!" she protested.  "My soup is _not_ that bad."

Trowa nodded.  "Absolutely not.  It's worse."

She pouted.  "Okay, so soup isn't my strong suit.  Could _you_ do better?"

"I'll bet I could," he said.

"I'll take that bet," she said.  "The rest of the troupe will be judges.  Loser is the winner's slave for a week."

"Fine, then," he said, smiling.  "Let's start cooking."

*             *             *

Mariemaia figured her life was good.  She liked the Lady very much.  She was very kind and gentle.  She was good at reading stories and always remembered to do the voices.  She also let Mariemaia take the rose-and-lavender-scented bubble baths she loved, though her eyes always got a little sad seeing Mariemaia in the frothy tub.

Mariemaia also liked her new legs.  She had been afraid back in the hospital with its sterile unfeeling white walls and unpleasant smells, and the doctors coming near her with all their cold, sharp tools.  But the Lady had been near, too, and said in her soothing voice that it would all be okay.  And it was, and now Mariemaia could walk and skip and run again.

Life wasn't perfect, of course.  Mariemaia could still remember Dekim's angry face, and all the soldiers that had followed her.  She had done bad things, of that she was sure, but whenever she tried to remember exactly what she had done, she wasn't really sure.  Besides, it was okay to do bad things when they were mistakes.  That was what the Lady had said, and so had Daddy.  The Lady had made mistakes, too, bad mistakes, and if the Lady had done it too, then it had to be okay, right?

A new house, new legs, and the Lady always there: yes, Mariemaia was happy.  And now she was excited: that morning, while they were eating their pancakes, the Lady had said that nexst weekend, they would be going to the circus. Mariemaia had never been to the circus, but the Lady had said it was fun, and there would be someone there she knew and hadn't seen for a while.  She could hardly wait.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

Notes:  Hmm, that wasn't quite what I had in mind for Trowa, somehow....Eesh,*why* did I ever try to serialize this fic?  I'm *such* a slow writer...from now on, if you want to be e-mailed with new chapters to this fic as attachments e-mail romancherubX@aol.com and let me know...it'll be much easier that way...you can also e-mail me with questions, comments, or just to let me know that someone out there is reading this fic.  Also, in case anyone cares, the next chapter is going to focus on Quatre.

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is the property of Sontsu Agency, Bandai Studios, and some other people whose names have slipped my memory now...This fic is copyright 2001 Cassandra Lupos, please don't repost without permission.  I am not making money from this.  


	4. Party

**__**

Seasons

Chapter Four: Party

It was at a party Quatre first saw her.

He had come to dread these parties. They had been pleasant enough at first: the people were usually friendly, and the music was usually pretty enough. But so many nights of smiling emptily until his cheeks hurt, so many dances to music that sounded the same after a while, and so many refusals of cocktails that he was considering making a public statement of his abstinence from alcohol, had taken a toll on him.

Now, he viewed these occasions as reruns of the same bad movie with a slightly different cast each time. The parts were always the same: the old, seasoned politicians, mostly gray-haired men, who treated him kindly but as one would treat a child who liked to play with "grown-ups"; the younger politicians who were eager to be seen with _the _Quatre Winner in hopes that it would speed their ascension up the social ladder; the silly, naïve girls who, pushed by their parents, tried to get close to him and his money and power. The social butterflies floated to him like moths to a fire, and he never had the heart to turn them away. It was only then that he blessed his crowded schedule for providing him with occasions to reject the girls.

This party had not been any different. Already he had refused cocktails twice; he had danced with several girls, all ready to "accidentally" show him their cleavage or a little leg, just in case it would make him do what their parents wanted; he had shaken hands until his wrist ached with men and women alike ecstatic to meet _the _Quatre Winner; he had tried to join in the only worthwhile conversation at the occasion, only to be received with pleasant smiles from people who saw nothing more than his young age, and had come away frustrated.

Then he saw her.

She was standing near the band, surveying the room with an expression Quatre couldn't read: boredom, disdain, sadness, longing--he was unsure. She was lonely; her blue-green eyes reflected the flecks of light from the chandeliers like the sun on the sea on Earth. Her soft blond hair was pulled back from her pale face and cascaded past her shoulders in waves. She was about as tall as Quatre, and carried herself elegantly but not haughtily. She had a noble nose and delicate lips.

She wore a modest green dress, flat black shoes, and little, if any, make up, and her only jewelry was a pair of small, emerald-studded silver hoop earrings. Perhaps, he though, looking at her graceful, bare neck, that was what set her apart from other girls, with their low-cut dresses, painted faces, and stiletto heels. Or maybe it was that she isolated herself, reluctant to join the throng.

Or maybe she just drew Quatre to her because of that same inexplicable pull that drew people to places they had never been but would call home for the rest of their days.

Whatever it was, Quatre found himself about to go to her and introduce himself, but another smiling businessman wanted to talk to him and show the world he knew _the _Quatre Winner, and by the time Quatre could look back, she was gone. He noticed her dancing with a young man, and had mixed feelings at the sight: he didn't wasn't anyone else to dance with her, but _oh, _she was beautiful when she danced.

As hard as he tried, he was unable to talk to her all night, and never saw her go home. At last, he left, feeling dejected. His sisters Rhea and Cora were worried, but he told them he was merely tired and went to bed. He dreamed of a strange golden angel who cried salty tears out of her ocean eyes and danced alone to a mournful waltz.

***

The next morning, he decided to try and find her, partly because he had nothing better to do, but mostly because he felt she had to be something…significant, to appear in his dreams like that. He hoped she was.

So he set out with no idea where to begin, and he decided to head in the general direction of where the party had been held, even though he was fully aware she could live miles away.

It wasn't far--he reached it after about a half hour of walking briskly. The girl was nowhere in sight, and he found himself disappointed even though he hadn't expected her to be. He continued to walk, but slowly now, without any clear destination.

When he saw her, he couldn't be sure if it was fate or luck or chance that had led him there, but it didn't matter. She was sitting on a bench in a little park, hunched over and writing in a notebook. He wanted to go over to her, but he suddenly felt quite foolish and didn't know what to say. His feet, however, seemed to have other plans, for before he knew it he was in front of her and his mouth was saying, "Did you enjoy the party last night?"

She looked up, surprised but not startled. "Not particularly."

The answer didn't surprise him, but her voice caught him off guard. It was soft, and a little deep, and made him think of velvet. "Oh?" he said, like an idiot, trying desperately to make conversation.

She shook her head and closed her book. "I saw you," she said. "You didn't seem to be enjoying yourself any more than I was."

"I wasn't," he admitted.

"I wanted to introduce myself, because of that," she said. "Because you were the only person who felt the same way I did. But I didn't have time."

She had a slight accent, he noticed. French, it sounded like. He wished he could speak French. "I wanted to introduce myself, too. I was hoping I'd find you."

She smiled, and he felt his knees go weak. "I think I'm glad you did."

"Do you believe in fate?" he blurted out. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid…._

She looked thoughtful. 'Not really, no. I don't believe we are all blind followers on a predestined path. I believe we all create our own destiny, our own fate." She turned to him. "Do you?"

"No," he said. "I agree with you. But sometimes it's easier to believe in fate."

"As a soldier, a Gundam pilot no less, I can see how you would want to," she said.

"How did you know?" he said in surprise.

She looked amused. "You'll have to get used to fame, Mr. Quatre Winner. You're one of the most recognizable figures in the Colonies. But anyway, though I can understand what you're saying, that's just taking the easy way out. Like suicide," she added quietly.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I was just remembering--about two years ago, less, I think, towards the beginning of the war, a Gundam pilot…visited me, I guess. I never learned his name."

"What did he look like?" Quatre asked.

She closed her eyes. "He had…brown hair, I think, crazy hair, looked like he hadn't brushed it for days. Dark eyes, about your height, a little shorter, maybe; it _was _two years ago."

"Heero," Quatre said. "Heero Yuy."

She opened her eyes. "Heero Yuy? Was that his real name?"

He shook his head. "No. A codename."

"I see. Rather ironic, almost hypocritical, really."

"What did he do?" said Quatre.

"He--after saving me from a mobile suit, he drove me to my grandfather's grave. He laid some flowers on it, flowers he had bought, I guess. Then he--" she broke off.

"You don't have to tell me," he said quickly.

She smiled. "No, it's alright. It's just strange, really, remembering this." She paused. "He confessed to me that he had killed my grandfather. At that moment, I hated him so much. Looking back, I know it was a mistake; that's what he said, and I'm sure he wasn't lying. But I didn't care. I hated him. Then he offered the easy way out for both of us.

"He handed me a gun. He just gave it to me, and I took it. He said he wanted to make it up to me, and this was the only way he knew how."

She took a deep breath. "I took the gun. I took it, and pointed it at him, and he just stood there. I'd like to say I didn't shoot out of the 'goodness of my heart,' or because I knew it was wrong, but that's not it. The reason I didn't pull the trigger was…revenge. I wanted to hurt him the way he'd hurt me, and I could see in his eyes how _desperate _he was. He wanted to die, wanted me to shoot, and so I didn't. I called him a coward, and he didn't do anything."

"Coward's not a word I would associate with Heero, and yet--" Quatre stopped, puzzled. "I never thought about it that way."

She smiled wryly. "Maybe I'm wrong. Who knows?"

"If you don't mind me asking, who was your grandfather?" he said gently.

"Oh!" she said. "I'm so rude, I haven't even told you my own name yet." She put her book aside and stood up. "I'm Sylvia Noventa. My grandfather was Marshall Noventa." She offered her hand.

He shook it. "I'm Quatre Winner, though I guess you knew that already."

"Yes," she said, smiling.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" he asked shyly.

"Not at all," she said. They sat on the bench.

"It's so strange, being on the Colonies," she murmured.

"Why?" he asked.

"There's no wind," she explained. "I guess you're used to it, but I've lived on Earth all my life, in France. It's weird not to feel the breeze. At the same time, though, it's kind of nice not to have to worry about it messing up your hair." She grinned, and Quatre smiled back.

Suddenly she looked anxious. "Do you have the time?"

He looked at his watch. "It's a quarter to eleven."

"_Zute!*"_ she cried. He wasn't sure what it meant, but it sounded like an expletive. "I'm late for my art class! I have to go." She picked up her notebook and stood up. "Tomorrow's Monday…I get out of school at four…can you meet me here at four-thirty?"

"Uh…yeah," Quatre said. "Sure."

"Good," she said, relieved. "I'll see you tomorrow, then. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye," he called after her retreating figure. He felt dazed. It was like Sylvia had been a vision, a mirage, but one so dizzyingly intense and intoxicating that he could never be quite the same as before.

__

Sylvia. So the angel had a name. He stayed there, in that park, for quite a while, as if a bit of her essence had stayed behind, lingering on the bench, haunting his senses. When the thought of her velvety voice, flaxen hair, deep-sea eyes, and porcelain skin, he could have sworn he felt the slightest breeze.

*************

*Zute is a mild French oath equivalent to "darn" or "damn it."

Notes: I've wanted to write this chapter for quite a while. Hmm, let's see…As always, e-mail romancherubX@aol.com with comments, questions, requests to have me e-mail you each new part as it comes out, etc.

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing and all its characters is the property of Bandai, Sontsu Agency, and various other companies associated with it that are not in any way, shape or form connected to me. The fic "Seasons" is © Cassandra Lupos 2000-2001. Please ask permission before reposting.


	5. Seasons

**_Seasons_**

Chapter Five: Seasons

Heero looked around for Duo, who had promised to meet him at the airport. He spotted the braided boy standing by a window, looking impatient. His hair was as unruly as always. He was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt--did he ever wear anything but black? Duo was a bit taller than he had been, but then, he supposed, so was Heero. Duo looked a little pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes, but other than that, he looked just as Heero had remembered him, and when he saw Heero, his smile was the same energetic grin in Heero's memory.

"Heero! Hey!"

They walked towards each other. "D'you have any bags or anything?" Duo asked.

Heero shook his head.

"Okay, then, let's go!" They started heading out of the terminal. "I really hate airports," Duo complained. "They're freaking mazes, you know?"

Heero shrugged.

"So, how've you been?" Duo asked.

Heero shrugged again. "Fine."

"Good," Duo said. "Alright, so I had this idea, see? Since Hilde's away for a while, you can help me run the business. Sound good?"

Heero responded with another shrug and, "Okay."

"Great! Duo said enthusiastically.

They walked in silence until exiting the airport. "We'll have to take the bus. I don't own a car," Duo said, almost apologetically.

"Okay," Heero said, shrugging.

The bus came by in a few minutes, and they got on wordlessly. They didn't speak during the ride or when they got off. They said nothing until they reached Duo's house.

"Here we are," Duo announced. "Home, sweet home."

He seemed to want a response, so Heero said, "Hn."

Duo glanced at him. "Still as social and outgoing as ever, I see."

Heero ignored him.

Duo rolled his eyes. "Geez, do you even know what a sense of humor _is_?" He opened the door, stepped inside, and flicked the light switch.

Heero surveyed the room. It was fairly nondescript: furniture in muted shades of brown and beige, wooden floorboards, off-white walls. He strongly suspected Hilde had been in charge of the decorating.

"Well, here we are," Duo announced. "Home, sweet home. Come on, I'll show you to your room." He walked to a staircase and started heading upstairs. Heero followed wordlessly.

The room Duo led him to was no more striking than the rooms downstairs had been. It was remarkable, really, how very unlike Duo this house was.

"So," Duo said. "Tomorrow maybe we can get you some clothes. Till then, you can borrow some of mine; we're about the same size, I guess."

Heero shrugged.

"Did you forget how to talk or something since I last saw you?" Duo demanded.

Heero shook his head.  "I have nothing to say."

Duo looked at him like he was a puzzle to solve.  "Whatever.  You want dinner?"

Heero shrugged.

Duo scowled.  "If you shrug one more time…"  He turned away and headed downstairs.  "I made some pasta earlier.  I figured you'd be hungry, since airplane food usually sucks."

Heero followed him.

"So we've just got to heat it up…also, you can put sauce in it if you want; I wasn't sure if you liked it."  Duo looked over his shoulder.  "Do you?"

"Yes."

"'Kay, then…"

The entered the kitchen.  "Let's see…" Duo murmured, opening and rummaging through the refrigerator.  "Voilà!  Here it is!" he announced, extracting a bowl of penne pasta.  "Now I just have to warm it up…" He put it in the microwave and set the timer.  Turning back to the refrigerator, he said, "Now, where did I put that sauce?  Aha!  Here we are."  He set it on the counter.

"Duo…" Heero began.  His tongue felt thick and clumsy.  "Thank you."

"Huh?  For what?"

"For…well…" He felt rather young, somehow.  "No one's ever made me pasta before."

Duo turned to face him, grinning.  "Hey, no problem."

"Duo, watch out for the—" Heero warned suddenly.

CRASH!

"—sauce," he finished, too late.

The jar of sauce now lay in shards on the floor.  Duo stared at it dumbly.  "Oops."  He nudged a piece with his toe.  "How'd that happen?"

"Your braid knocked it over," Heero said.

"My braid?"  Something clicked in Duo's mind.  "Oh, man!"  He reached behind him and pulled his hair in front of him, watching in dismay as red sauce dripped from the tip.  "Oh, _man_!  This'll take forever to wash out!  What's so funny?" he demanded, glaring at Heero.

Heero blinked.  "Nothing.  I wasn't laughing."

"No, but you were about to," Duo insisted.  "Which is about as close as you ever come, so you as much as actually did laugh."

"That's ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?  Oh, so first you laugh at me and then you insult me, is that it?"

"What?  No, I—"

Duo grinned.  "Made you talk!"

Heero looked absolutely bewildered.

Duo shook his head, still grinning.  "Geez, you really can't take a joke, can you?  Guess I better get a towel, huh?"  He tugged on his damp hair.  "And a mop," he added, gesturing to the mess on the floor.  "I think there's one in that closet."  He pointed behind Heero, who turned and opened the door.

Duo gingerly stepped over the remains of the jar and grabbed a paper towel from the roll over the sink, then proceeded to try and dry his hair as best as possible.  "I guess that'll have to do for now."

Heero, mop in hand, sniffed the air.  "What's that smell?"

Duo's eyes widened.  "Oh, crap, the pasta!" he exclaimed.  He ran to the microwave and opened it, waving away the smoke.  "I guess I set it for too long, and we forgot about it…" his voice trailed off.  He took another paper towel and used it to gingerly take out the bowl without burning himself, though he winced a bit.

Heero stared at the smoking bowl.

"It might still be salvageable," Duo said doubtfully, opening a drawer and pulling out a fork.  He took a piece and tasted it, immediately coughing and making a face.  "Yeah.  Salvageable if you happen to consider nuclear waste gourmet cuisine."

The two were silent for a moment.  "You know what?" Duo said suddenly.  "How about we forget the whole thing and order pizza?  There's a place nearby that delivers."

"What about the floor?" Heero said.

"Ah, put the mop away.  I'll clean it up in the morning."

Heero obliged.

"So, what do you like on your pizza?" Duo asked as he opened various drawers, looking for the phone book.

Heero shrugged.

"Hey, I warned you about shrugging," Duo said.

"I don't know," Heero said.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Duo said.  "Aha!  Found it!"  He held up the phone book triumphantly.

"I've never had pizza before," Heero said.

Duo abruptly dropped the phone book.  "Say _what_?"

"I said, I've—"

"Never mind, it was painful enough to hear that the first time."  Duo bent down to pick up the phone book.  Rising, he took a deep breath and faced Heero.  "You've never had _pizza_ before?"

Heero shook his head.

Duo's eyes widened.  "You're joking.  You have to be joking.  Oh, God, please tell me you're joking.  Wait, forget it—you don't joke.  Have you seriously never had pizza before?"

Heero shook his head and wondered if it were so terrible to be, on some level, enjoying the abject horror that was so plain on Duo's face.

"But—you—_how_?" Duo stammered.

Heero started to shrug, but Duo held up a hand to stop him.

"Don't shrug.  So you've never had pizza before?"

Heero nodded.

Duo looked amazed.  "Wow."

"Is there something wrong with that?" Heero asked.

"Yes," Duo said.  "Yes, there is something wrong with that.  Very wrong."

"Why?"

"Because it's _pizza_!"  Duo took a deep breath to calm down.  "Well, then.  Now we _have_ to order pizza."

Heero failed to see the logic in that, but said nothing.

"Now, where did I put that phone book?" Duo wondered, looking around.

Heero pointed at the thick volume on the counter next to Duo's elbow.

Duo looked at it and blinked.  "I knew that.  Really I did."  He started flipping through it, looking for the right number.  "So I figure we'll get one with half-plain, half-pepperoni, and another with half-everything, half-Hawaiian."

"Hawaiian?"

"Yeah, pineapple and ham."  Duo glanced at him and laughed.  "Oh, man, if I had a camera for that look on your face."

"_Pineapple _and _ham_?"

"Sounds weird, I know, but it's good, trust me."

Heero raised an eyebrow.

"Hey, you can raise one eyebrow at a time!" Duo exclaimed, obviously pleased in some obscure, childish way that Heero could perform this not-so-amazing feat.

Heero blinked.  "Yes, I can."  He looked at Duo with an implied question in his eyes: _And your point would be_…?

"Jeez, I couldn't do that for my life," Duo marveled.  "See?"  To illustrate his point, he executed a series of facial gestures that were apparently his attempts at raising one eyebrow and a time.  The results were so comical that Heero had to smile.

*             *             *

In the shower the next morning, Heero reflected that the Hawaiian pizza had actually been quite good, though the same could not be said for the nineteen-fifties horror movie Duo had insisted on renting.  The braided boy had spent the night laughing at the actors and cheesy special effects; Heero had completely failed to see the appeal.

He turned off the shower and stepped out.  After toweling off and throwing on the clothes Duo had lent him the night before, he left the bathroom and went downstairs.  Glancing through Duo's open bedroom door, he could see his neatly made bed.

Duo was leaning back in an armchair in the corner of the living room, reading a book and looking pensive.  His hair was wet and braided; had he showered already?  He looked up as Heero descended down the stairs.

"Hey," Duo said, smiling.  "Mornin'."

"Good morning."  Heero noticed the title of Duo's book and raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, this," Duo said, laughing.  "I don't go around reading the Bible all the time, no.  But…" he hesitated.  "Look, I was listening to some music, the Doors, right?  This group from the nineteen sixties, seventies.  And I cam across this song, and I'd heard it before, but for some reason this time I thought, 'Hey, haven't I heard those words before?'  And then I though, 'Well, duh, I've heard the song before.

"But then I remembered about…a church I went to, years ago.  And I found this—" he held up the Bible "—a…a friend of mine, a priest, gave it to me.  And I fount the passage the song was taken from."  He seemed troubled.  "It's Ecclesiastes, chapter three, verses one through eight.

"To everything, there is a season, and a time for everything under the heavens: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;" he paused.  "A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to keep, and a time to throw away; a time to tear, and a time to sew."

He took a deep breath before continuing.  "A time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace."

The room was still and quiet.  The silence between the two boys was almost something tangible, something unnerving yet safe and familiar, and somehow reminiscent of early morning sunlight, true sunlight, not the artificial brightening of the Colony lights.

Heero looked through the doorway at the kitchen.  The sauce had already been cleaned up.  Something about that, and Duo's wet hair, seemed off to Heero, but he shook it off.

"It's funny," Duo said, breaking the spell like a pebble tossed onto a lake's mirrored surface.  "That was written thousands of years ago, and yet…they were right, weren't they?"

"Maybe," Heero said after a moment.

"Yeah," Duo sighed, closing his Bible and turning to face Heero.  "Maybe so."

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

Notes: Well, now you know where the name of this fic came from ^_~  I realize that I may have offended some people by bringing the Bible into a Gundam Wing fanfiction.  Please note that this does not in any way reflect my beliefs.  I simply like this passage very much, and I think it really suits the themes of Gundam Wing (and this fic).  Please treat it as a quote from any work of literature.  By the way, I'm pretty sure it was the Doors that had a song using that passage—"For everything (turn, turn, turn) there is a season (turn, turn, turn)…if I'm wrong, please let me know…actually, as always, please e-mail romancherubX@aol.com with any comments whatsoever you may have on this fic, or if you want to be e-mailed as it's updated, since I'm _such_ a slow writer (I had **severe** writer's block for this chapter.)  Gundam Wing and all related characters belong to Sontsu Agency, Bandai Studios, and TV Asahi. The fic "Seasons" is copyright 2001 Cassandra Lupos; please don't repost without asking.  I did not write that song (or the Bible passage ;)


	6. Serenity

**IMPORTANT NOTE!!**

By some strange fluke [glares at her evil computer], I just realized Chapter Four of Seasons was cut off some time in the middle.  So **please** go and read the end of it!  I apologize for the inconvenience ^.^;   Without further ado….

Seasons 

****

Chapter Six: Serenity 

Sally Po was admiring the intricate grey-white swirls of clouds over rust-brown plains, lush green vegetation, and shimmering blue oceans.  She found it relaxing to gaze at the Earth from space, though the view was dizzying.

"What are you doing?" Wufei demanded, his voice tired but sharp.

She smiled.  "Just looking at the Earth.  It's so beautiful… If I didn't know better, I'd say it was untouched by war."

"But you do know better, so what's the point?"

"You are so impossibly cynical."

"And you are impossibly idealistic."

"Don't you dare call me idealistic," she started, but he had already turned and left.  She sighed in exasperation.  "Honestly," she complained to the air, "that boy can be so… so…"

"Stupid?"

Sally turned in surprise to see the newcomer.  "Noin!  What are you doing here?"

The lieutenant grinned.  "Nice to see you again, too."

"Well, I—of course, it's wonderful to see you… I just thought you were working on the Mars Terra-Formation Project."

Noin shrugged.  "I was.  But then Zechs got a cal from _you_ guys, and I… well, I only went to stay with him, and apparently this was some big, top-secret thing I couldn't accompany him on… so I figured I'd drop by."

"I'm glad you did," Sally admitted, walking to Noin.  "I was getting a little lonely, what with Une taking a well-deserved break, and…"

"Wufei?"

Sally winced.  "Yeah."

"How is he, anyway?  Have you regretted hiring him yet?"

"Well, he's ornery, petulant, sarcastic, chauvinistic, angry, and downright irritating, but a great worker."

Noin laughed.  "I should have guessed as much.  In other words, he hasn't changed."

"Something like that.  I want to help him, but he's so difficult…"  She sighed, then shook her head as if to clear it and focus on pleasant things.  Gazing at Noin, she said, "Anyway, I'm glad you're here."

The two friends exchanged a quick hug.

Noin looked out the window of the space station.  "The Earth looks so beautiful from space."

Sally laughed.  I was just saying that to Wufei before he fired his cynicism at me."

"That boy wouldn't know beauty if it hit him on the head."

Sally nodded.  "Yes.  But you know, we can't blame him for it."

Noin frowned slightly.  "I suppose, but it would be so much better for _him_ if he wasn't.  Angry, sure, sad, skeptical, but bitterness is just a waste.  It's like a cancer, really… it'll destroy him from within.  He can't heal without letting go of it."

  
Sally regarded her.  "And this is coming from someone who has a lot to be bitter about."

Noin shrugged.  "Like what?"  I lost friends, yes, I lost many things and loved ones during the war, but look at all that I have.  I have my friends—you here, and Relena, I know, on Earth.  And I have Zechs—somewhere that a certain group of soldiers refuses to disclose the location of to me."  She looked pointedly at Sally.

Sally sighed.  "I guess you may as well know.  He's on—have you heard of the S-4 colony?"  Seeing Noin's blank look, she explained: "The 'S' stands for 'season.'  Four seasons.  About A. C. Fifty or so, people—colonists—got homesick, in a way, but didn't want to go home.  So they built the S-4 to mimic the Earth.  A few people run the weather system, but it's largely random when it comes to things like rain.  And it's got cold and hot months, winter, summer, fall, and spring.  Of course, the weather was never too dangerous, or even very unpleasant.

"Except, recently, something went haywire.  We got a call for help from the weather control, but they stopped—or got cut off—before they could finish telling us what was wrong."

"So you sent Zechs to find out," Noin said.  "Why him, though?"

"Because, as much as I hate it, the Preventors are a ruthless military organization, and it helps us when the agents sent on risky missions with a lot of blanks aren't directly connected to us, and _he_ isn't.  Not officially."

Noin nodded.  "I see."

"Do you, I wonder?" Sally mused.  "Noin, don't be mad.  Please.  Just enjoy your time off."

"I'm not mad," Noin said after a pause.  "I just…" Her voice trailed off.  "I needed a break anyway."

"Oh?  Why?  Hard work?" Sally guessed.

"Not exactly," Noin admitted.

"Were you and Zechs not getting along?"

"Huh?  Oh, no!  We were getting along fine!"  Noin said with a bright smile.  "Really."

"That's good.  Do you get to talk often?"

The change thqat came over Noin's face was only visible in the way her eyes seemed to be avoiding anything but the floor.  "Well, he's really busy, you know.  And so was I, though I wasn't as—vital.  At all, really.  So, we didn't really… we couldn't… sit down and… talk, all that often, but sometimes we'd discuss the project and all, and Relena, and… other stuff."

"Mmm."  Sally pursed her lips in disapproval.  "So the answer is no."

"Well…" Noin's smile faded.  "Yeah.  The answer's no."  She sighed.  "Maybe it's just as well.  What would we talk about, anyway?"

"Yourselves, each other, your relationship…" Sally listed.  "Plenty of things to talk about that need to be talked about."

"I know, but—" Noin stopped."

"But what?"

"Lately, it's seems like he's _avoiding_ me.  Like, he's always making excuses, and I don't know why.  I thought maybe there was someone else, but he'd be honest about that, you know?  And he never makes eye contact; ecen when he's looking at me his eyes are somewhere else."

"Hmm."  Sally frowned.  "That doesn't sound like Zechs.  It's really rather—" she stopped herself from saying "immature," thinking Noin wouldn't want to hear it.  "Strange.  Maybe he doesn't realize he's doing it."

Noin looked skeptical, but she shrugged it off.  "Ah, well.  Men are stupid.  Case in point being everyone's favorite Gundam-pilot-turned-Preventor."  Her lips formed a wry grin.  "Come to think of it, I think I'll go say hi to him now; that is, if our therapy session is over, Dr. Po?"

Sally laughed.  "Quite over, I'd say.  Be careful Wufei doesn't bite your head off."

"Come now, Sally… He's not _rabid_."

Sally shook her head.  "I don't know; sometimes I wonder."

Noin was laughing as she headed to find Wufei.

*             *             *

Wufei sat very still in his room.  The only movement was the slow expansion and decrease of his chest; the only sound was the low hum of the ship functioning his thoughts came slowly.  He felt as though he were under water—but of course that was ridiculous.  It was something for Sally to think, that ridiculous, emotional woman… he stopped himself.  Getting bitter would only spoil this calm state of meditation.

He wasn't quite sure how it had started, but sometimes, if he sat still long enough, being acutely aware of the pounding of his heart, of the rise and fall of his breath like that of the ocean tide, he would start to feel peaceful.  His mind would wander like a contented phantasm, and he found he could think of all sorts of things wihtout being moved in the least.  He could think, _Meiran is dead,_ and, _Treize is dead; I killed him._

Noin stopped at Wufei's doorway and looked at him for a moment before entering.  She noted his slender frame, perfect posture, and obsidian eyes; he was the picture of serenity.  "Hey," she said, not too loud, trying to keep the calm aura of the room intact.

Wufei blinked and jerked his head up to look at her.  "What do you want?"

"I just wanted to say hi," she explained.

"Hello."

She sighed.  "You know, if only you wouldn't be so… _hateful_ all the time.  We just want to help you."

"Please don't patronize me."

"It's _true_," she insisted.

"I don't need your help."  His eyes glinted icily.

She started to retort, but stopped herself.  _Getting angry won't help anyone._  She lingered for an awkward moment.  "Well, just remember, you can always talk to us if you feel like it."

"Thank you, but I won't."

"Whatever you say."  She closed the door behind her.

Wufei was glad she'd left.  He always felt angry after one of his moments of peace.  Perhaps, he reflected, because he knew it was as pointless as gazing at the Earth.  _There's no use to it,_ he chastised himself.  _You should just stop._

Yes, stop—but stop what?  Stop the rare pauses of bliss?  Or stop thinking about everyone from his past altogether?  Which would be harder, better, braver, he wondered.  He brooded about it until Sally came in with work for him to do.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

Notes:  Yes, that took a while, didn't it?  And once again, sorry about the whole Chapter Four thing… ^.^;  Yes, well…there's not too much to say, is there?  E-mail romancherubX@aol.com with comments, questions, requests to have new chapters sent to you, etc….

Disclaimer:  Gundam Wing and all related characters are property of Sontsu Agency, Bandai Studios and TV Asahi.  The fic "Seasons" is copyright Cassandra Lupos 2001, please don't post it anywhere without asking.  


	7. Weather

Seasons Chapter Six: Weather

RIIING!  RIIING!

"I'll get it!" Duo called.  He needn't have bothered; Heero never answered the phone.

RIIING!  RII—"Hello, Duo speaking, who's this?"

"Duo?"  The voice on the other line was faint, but familiar.

"Hilde, hey!"

"Duo?  Duo, is that you?  You've got to speak up; the phones over here are messed up."

"What?  Where are you?"  His brow furrowed in concern.

"I'm on the S-4 colony.  Listen, something happened to the plane—I'm stuck here for God knows how long.  I just wanted to—"

There was a loud burst of static.  "Hilde?  Hilde!  Are you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here.  But I don't know for how long.  Don't try coming—the flights to here are suspended.  I just wanted to let you know I'm okay, but I may not be home for a while."

"Alright."

"Okay.  Oh, and Duo—"

Another crackle came from the receiver.  "Hilde!"

"Duo?  Duo, I can't hear you.  The phone's going dead.  Listen, I have to go.  If you can hear me… I have to—"

There was a loud snap, and then a woman's voice saying, "We're sorry.  Your call has been disconnected.  Please hang up and try again.  We're sorry.  Your call has…"

Duo stared, worried, at the receiver, hoping Hilde was okay.

*             *             *

Hilde hung up the receiver in defeat.  The line had been completely cut off; it was no surprise, with the snow that had been flurrying nonstop for the past two days.

_Snow!  On a Colony!_  She shook her head in wonder.  _Ah, well… better go back to the hotel._  She pulled her coat close around her and her cap low on her ears, and she stepped out of the phone booth.

"It's no use; the phone's dead," she told the tall man in the trench coat waiting outside.  She stopped, stifling a gasp.  _The tall blond man in the trench coat with the eerily familiar ice blue eyes and long hair…_

"Great," he muttered, looking irritated, "just great.  How am I supposed to report back _now_?"  He sighed.  "God, I hope it's not all the phones… but with this weather, it probably is."  He looked at her dispassionately.

"I… I don't know," she said, out of forced politeness.  _Please don't let him recognize me, please don't let him recognize me…_

He shook his head in annoyance.  Then he peered at her more closely.  "Excuse me… have we met?"

_Crap._  "No, I don't think so," she said carefully, trying to keep the franticness of her heart from reaching her voice.

"Are you sure?  I could swear you look familiar."

"I don't seem to recall meeting you," she said.

He frowned.  "No—I'm certain of it."  He glanced down the street.  "Look, why don't we go into that café while I try to figure out where I've seen you before.  It'll give us a chance to get out of this cold, anyway."

"Well…okay," she agreed.

Once they had sat down across from each other at a table, he stared at her intently, trying to place her.  "It must have been during the war," he murmured.  "But I met so many people during the war….Were you a soldier?"

_Don't lie,_ she told herself.  _Lying could be dangerous._  "Yes," she answered simply.  "I was."

"That must be it," he decided.

"Perhaps," she allowed, shrugging.  "Though I'm sure I would remember meeting someone as important as you, Mr. Marquise.  Er, Mr. Peacecraft.  Er…"  She trailed off uncertainly.

"Marquise," he supplied.  "But please, call me Zechs."

"Are you sure?"

"Everyone in the war called me Zechs, from Treize Kushrenada himself to the people that brought me my coffee in the mornings."

"If you say so."

There was an awkward silence that Hilde wished would end, though she didn't dare speak, until Zechs said, "Well.  What are you doing here, Miss…"

"Hilde.  Hilde Schbeiker.  I'm on a business trip.  At least, I was; my plane landed here for some reason, and I guess I'm stuck."

"Mmm.  You say your plane wasn't supposed to land here?"

She shook her head.  "No.  I guess we crashed or something."

"Was there anyone… _significant_ on the plane?  I mean politically."

"Not that I know of.  Why?" she asked, puzzled.

He started to explain, but stopped himself.  "Forget it.  No reason."

"Hey, if it's something political or military, maybe I can help."  _Stupid.  Why did you say that?_

He smiled gently.  "I can understand you want to help, but I'd really be better off doing this alone."

_Arrogant jerk._  "I suppose you think I'm just a kid."  _Shut up_ now, _Hilde._

He sighed.  "Well, if you want to put it bluntly…"

"Well, I _happen_ to be 'just the kid' who snuck data off _your_ Libra and…"  Her mouth went dry.  _And you did that…why?_  "What I meant was," she started weakly.

Zechs' eyes narrowed.  "That was _you_?"

_No use denying it now._  "Well, um…I…yeah, but…"

"I see."  He nodded.  "Thank you."

She was taken aback.  "What?"

"Of you hadn't done that, we may have achieved peace anyway.  But perhaps not, or perhaps more painfully.  So thank you."

"Oh," she said dumbly.  "You're welcome."

He seemed to be thinking something over.  "Not many people can steal data from my ship and live to tell about it.  But we can't talk here.  Come with me."  He stood up.

"What?  I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Just come with me.  I'll explain in a moment."

Still she hesitated.  He said, "Are you afraid of me?"

_Yes,_ she answered in her mind, but her pride would not have let her save her for the world.  Besides, it was silly to be intimidated by him: yes, he was a soldier, a famous or infamous one, but she had been a soldier, too.  She had fought mobile dolls and Gundam pilots, the best of the best.  She looked him in the eye and said in a clear voice, "No."

He smiled.  "Good.  Are you coming or not?"

"Yes," she decided.  "I am."

*             *             *

As it turned out, they were staying at the same hotel; not surprising, as it was, while not the only hotel in the area, by far the cheapest.

Zechs leaned back in his armchair and studied the girl sitting opposite him.  She was nervous, he could sense, but she was brave, too.  It took a lot of nerve to steal from Zechs Marquise.

_I hope I'm not doing something crazy, letting her help like this,_ he thought.  "How much do you know about this colony?"

She shook her head.  "Nothing."

"I see."  He quickly outlined for her its history and unique weather system.

She blinked.  "So that's why there's snow up here."

"Yeah.  But there shouldn't be this much."

"What do you mean?"

"While the computer is largely random, there are moderators to make sure it doesn't lead to any disasters.  It's possible to get into the system and manually alter the weather.  This worked flawlessly for decades."

"Then what's going on now?" she demanded.

"Well, that's what I'm here to find out.  Either something's gone wrong, and for some reason no one's stepping in, or, worse, someone is."

"But why?" she cried.

He shrugged.  "Who knows?  There are dozens of reasons.  Someone didn't get the promotion they wanted, maybe they're a little wrong in the head.  Some megalomaniac wants to run things _his_ way.  An anarchist group wants to screw things up for no reason other than sheer, total mayhem."

"So what can we _do_?"

"Right now?"  He fixed his gaze on her.  "Nothing."

"_Nothing_?"  Her tone was incredulous.

"Listen.  With this snow, there's no way to get anywhere."  He gestured at the flurrying flakes outside.  "Chances are, they're going to melt it once it's fallen enough.  That'll cause a flood.  After that, they could do anything—including raising the temperature without stopping."

"What'll that do?"

"It's a lot easier to kill people by heat stroke than by hypothermia."

Hilde shuddered.  "But that's  _awful_!"

"No kidding."

"We can't just do _nothing_!"

"We won't.  We'll try to find some way to communicate with Preventors HQ.  And we'll be on the lookout for anything that might let us figure out who these people are and why they're doing this.  Other than that, though, all we can do is wait."

"Wait," she repeated.  She turned her gaze out the window.  The snow was beautiful—crystalline and sparkling.  There was no motion on the streets below, save the continual falling of white powder.  She shivered.  _Those poor people.  And all I can do to help them is wait._

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

Notes:  That was considerably easier than I expected it would be, considering a) my evil writer's block, and b) the fact that Zechs and Hilde are probably among my least favorite characters in the series.  Well, they _were_…. I kind of like them now ^__^  Feel free to e-mail romancherubX@aol.com with comments, questions, suggestions, etc.

Disclaimer:  Gundam Wing and all related characters are property of Sontsu Agency, Bandai Studios and TV Asahi.  The fic "Seasons" is copyright Cassandra Lupos 2001, please don't post it anywhere without asking. 


	8. Fun

Chapter Eight: Fun 

Relena reached into her wardrobe and started examining dresses, trying to decide which would be the best to wear to Lord Garth's party that night. _Something warm_, she mused; in the last week of February, the Cinq Kingdom had yet to see the end of winter. _Black, perhaps?_ No, Dorothy was sure to wear black; besides, it suited her much better.

Dorothy. It had been a week since she's arrived, and she and Relena still hadn't exchanged anything more than a few words of polite conversation. Although she supposed that was better than the scathing mockery Dorothy had bestowed on her last time they had met, Relena was beginning to wonder why Dorothy had bothered to visit at all.

_Maybe… blue?_ She pondered, studying a simple, modest, midnight-blue velvet dress. _Yes, that works. Alright._

* * *

"Well, _that_ was officially the worst party I've ever been to," Dorothy announced several hours later as they burst into the palace. "And I've been to some _terrible_ parties."

"It _was_ pretty bad," Relena admitted.

"Bad? Try dismal," Dorothy scoffed. "Awful. Horrific. Painful."

"That's quite enough," Relena interrupted. "Not everyone can throw a great party."

"And the _people_!" Dorothy cried, ignoring Relena completely. "Like that Baron Smith. What a pervert!" She raised her eyebrows and puckered her mouth in what Relena had to admit was a perfect impression of him. "Ah, yes, Miss Darilan, what a pleasure to see—I mean, _meet_ you."

"He did _not_ say that!" Relena insisted."

"He was horrid!"

"Well," Relena started reluctantly, "I suppose he wasn't the most pleasant person around."

"_That's _the understatement of the century."

The two girls climbed the stairs to Relena's bedroom, where they sat on her bed.

"And that Lord William!" Dorothy continued.

"What about him?" Relena said, bewildered. "I thought he was perfectly nice!"

Dorothy gave her a skeptical look. "Nice, yes. Calm, hardly." She opened her eyes wide in false innocence and put a shaky smile on her face. "'P-p-p-pleased t-to m-m-meet you, Mi-miss V-vice F-f-foreign Mi-mi-minister."

"So he was a little nervous. Lots of people are shy."

Dorothy rolled her eyes. "He wasn't shy. He was pathetic." Her lips twisted in a sly smile. "Plus, he had a crush on you."

"Oh, _stop_!"

Dorothy chuckled. "I feel sorry for him, you know?"

Relena raised an eyebrow. "You? Feel sorry?"

"Yes, Relena, I _am_ capable of feeling human emotions."

"Glad to hear you have something in common with us mortals."

Dorothy looked surprised. "Ohoh, two points for Relena. Though, I wouldn't talk if I were you, Madame Queen of the World."

"_Ex_-Queen of the World. So why do you feel sorry for him?"

Dorothy's wicked smile broadened. "Because, to win your affection, he'll have to compete with the Perfect Soldier—who, I might add, _never_ stutters.

Relena's mouth dropped open. "Dorothy! I am _not_ in love with Heero!"

Dorothy nodded. "Absolutely. Which is why you're blushing furiously."

"_Dorothy_!"

"I must say, I can't entirely blame you," Dorothy continued.

Relena grabbed a pillow off her bed and held it out threateningly. "Of course, you _know_ this means war."

"My dear Relena, whatever happened to absolute pacifism?"

"Haven't you been following the news?" Relena mocked. "I renounced that view long ago. There are some things worth fighting for: peace, your beliefs, your loved ones…" She paused to think. "Your dignity!" she cried, whacking Dorothy with the pillow.

The look on Dorothy's face was priceless: shocked, wide-open eyes; eyebrows shooting to her hairline; mouth hanging open in a _most_ undignified way. "Excuse me," she said slowly," but if you think, just for moment, that you are going to get away with this, you are _grossly_ mistaken." She took a pillow and lunged at Relena, hitting her squarely across the face.

Relena gasped. "You—you—oh, _you_!" She retaliated, and soon the two of them were involved in a furious pillow fight. It soon became difficult to distinguish between their shrieks of dismay and their unstoppable giggles. The plush mattress was a perfect battlefield, and the bounced amidst the flurry of pillows until at last the stumbled to the carpeted floor, out of breath and with aching stomachs from laughing so hard.

Someone knocked at the door.

Dorothy inhaled sharply. "An intruder," she breathed.

Relena nodded. Together, they stood up and tiptoed to the door, pillows ready. Relena put a hand on the doorknob. She met Dorothy's gaze and mouthed, "One, two, three," whereupon she flung open the door and they attacked the intruder with a vengeance and wild battle cries.

"Miss Relena?!" came the muffled cry.

Relena's eyes flew wide open. "_Pagan?_" The girls abruptly ceased fire.

Pagan patiently brushed a stray feather from his brow, awaiting an explanation.

"I'm sorry—we were just caught up in the moment, I guess… I'm really sorry—are you okay?" Relena stammered.

"I'm quite fine, thank you," the elderly butler replied. "No harm done."

"Good," Relena sighed, much relieved.

"A Lord William Garth is on the phone for you," Pagan announced.

"Thank you." Relena exited the room, saying to Dorothy, "If you'll excuse me," while glaring at her guest. Dorothy's smirk reeked of "I told you so."

When Relena returned several minutes later, Dorothy said, "Well?"

Relena remained very dignified. "He wanted to thank me for attending, and he said it was a pleasure to meet me."

"Did he." Dorothy was the epitome of boredom.

"Actually, no." Relena smiled. "He said, 'It was a p-p-pleasure to m-meet y-you."

Dorothy gave another wicked grin. "You learn fast."

Relena laughed, then sighed and shook her head. "You're a bad influence on me, Dorothy."

"Am I?" Dorothy considered the question. "Perhaps, but I'm good for you. You needn't be afraid to be human, Relena."

"I'm not," Relena stated, her blue eyes going cold.

"Oh, aren't you?" Dorothy's mirthless smile stayed. "You're afraid to be a little devious; you're afraid to fall in love."

"I am _not_ afraid to fall in love," Relena insisted. "I simply refuse to confuse a fading, immature crush for the real thing. Romeo and Juliet let it happen, and look where they wound up."

"Very good, my dear Relena. But you are not a Capulet, and Heero is not a Montague."

"I am the Vice Foreign Minister, and Heero is a soldier. I don't haven time to be chasing him like a star struck groupie."

"You are the Vice Foreign Minister. You have time to do whatever you want."

"Time, but not opportunity."

"You could make opportunity."

Their eyes were locked in a fearfully icy contest until Relena broke the silence. "It doesn't matter what I can or can't do, because I don't have any feelings for him!"

"No feelings whatsoever?" Dorothy raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think you could be so cold."

Relena sighed in aggravation. "Well, I feel sorry for him, of course, but there are no romantic feelings there. Absolutely none."

"Whatever you say, Relena," Dorothy taunted in a soft sing-song. When Relena ignored her, she headed to the door, saying, "I'd better get to bed."

"Good night, then."

"Good night," came the call from past the door.

Dorothy smirked as she walked down the hall to the guest room she was occupying. _No crush on Heero? Riiight. We'll see about that, Miss Relena. We'll just see._

* * *

"Goodness, I had no idea you could be so aggressive," Dorothy remarked the next day. She and Relena were resting in one of the palace's many sitting rooms, having just finished a game of tennis. "Though maybe I shouldn't be surprised. After all, your former stance on absolute pacifism wasn't exactly meek and mild."

Relena shrugged. "I can be aggressive when the situation calls for it," she explained. "Tennis is a situation that calls for it. So is politics, though in politics you have to be much more subtle."

"That's true," Dorothy acknowledged with a nod. "What made you take it up?"

Relena shrugged again. "The courts were close, it looked like fun, and I needed a hobby. Hobbies are good for people, I think."

"Mmm."

"Do you have a hobby?" Relena inquired politely.

"I suppose I'd have to say photography," Dorothy mused. "I like it quite a bit."

"That's good," Relena said, smiling. "You know what they say: the camera doesn't lie."

"That's a fairly inaccurate observation," Dorothy said, smirking. "You can use the camera to expose the brutal truth, of course, but you can also construct wonderful lies." She leaned closer and lowered her voice to a harshly silky whisper. "You can change people's perceptions of reality. You can make the Gundam pilots look like ruthless killers or harmless teenage boys. I can make you look like a prisoner or a queen."

Relena recoiled ever so slightly. She realized she was quivering from the effect of staying still; ­_At least_, she thought, _I think that's what it is._

Dorothy noticed her slight tremors and laughed darkly. "With a camera, I can make it look like I don't frighten you."

Her remark cut through Relena's uneasiness. "You don't."

Dorothy drew back. "Oh, don't I?" she mocked. "Perhaps you're right. _I_ don't frighten you; I simply make you frighten yourself. When you're sitting in the dark hearing ghost stories, it isn't the storyteller you're afraid of. It's your own mind that scares you, later, when you're shivering and sweating and clutching yourself to keep from crying because if you make any noise, someone or something will take you and drag you into the darkness, and you just won't let yourself step out of your light."

This time Relena was prepared. A determined smile spread across her lips. "Nice try, Dorothy," she said confidently. "But I don't scare that easily."

"I guess not," Dorothy said. Her smile lingered and taunted Relena; it seemed to be saying, "I know something you don't know!"

"So," Dorothy said conversationally, "don't you ever get cold playing tennis?" She eyed Relena's shorts, mentally comparing them to her dark leggings.

Relena shrugged. "The running warms me up."

Dorothy shuddered a bit. Relena received odd satisfaction from this.

"Well, cold or no cold, it was certainly much more fun than that party last night," Dorothy said. "Of course, so is running with wolves dressed as raw meat."

Relena shook her head, amused. "You're never going to forget that, are you?"

Dorothy considered. "No. No, I'm never going to forget that."

Relena laughed. "You know, I can't figure out why, but… I'm glad you came."

"Don't you mean you're…"

The two girls looked at each other, grinned and chorused: "G-g-g-glad y-you c-c-came?" They promptly burst into giggles.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Notes: Well, that took me long enough ^.^; Due to travel plans and the like, I will be unable to update this fic until after the summer is over; on the bright side, once I return, I will be updating on a much more regular basis (as opposed to now… ^.^;) E-mail romancherubX@aol.com with comments, questions, requests to have new chapters sent to you, etc….

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing and all related characters are property of Sontsu Agency, Bandai Studios and TV Asahi. The fic "Seasons" is copyright Cassandra Lupos 2001, please don't post it anywhere without asking. 


	9. Childhood

Notes: This makes references to Trowa's Episode Zero manga; if you are not familiar with it, I suggest you go to http://episodezero.cjb.net for the entire Episode Zero translated.

**__**

Seasons

Chapter Nine: Childhood

Smoke, dyed indigo, crimson, and cerulean from spotlights, rolled onto the center stage and into the aisles, giant puffs writhing like tortured ghosts. The smoke moved like a conscious being, suffocating and caressing those it engulfed. Drums pounded in primal rhythms, erratic heartbeats that vibrated through every body.

The clouds parted, slightly at first before spreading themselves thin enough to be called mist. In the ring, people stood like statues, like one statue built of impossibly suspended components. Their sculpted muscles glistened; their painted bodies flowed into each other; limbs blurred together into an intricate medley of skin and sinew.

Slowly they moved, still as one being, one oscillating being that contracted and spread, reached outside and within itself, until it dissolved into shafowed people almost unrecognizable beneath delicate patterns: some bore dizzying geometric shapes; others, jungles and otherworld demons. They stood rigidly in a circle, facing outward.

From the back of the audience, screaming throngs rushed to join those in the ring, crying banshee wails. Sequins and peacock feathers flashed as they streamed through the audience, their faces contorted by demonic pleasure or covered with macabre masks.

They reached the stage and joined their fellow performers, whereupon they began a twisting, pulsing dance, moving like boneless creatures. Fairies with wings of gossamer and feather flew in on trapezes, scattering glitter as they soared. The dance grew into a wild, uproarious choreography of chaos, with swinging beams of light and a twirling, magical mass of people and the drums pounding in a swift crescendo until one final crash--

--And all was silent.

The audience sat, dumbstruck, before unanimously breaking into deafening applause and cheer. The performers joined hands and bowed, their grins familiar reminders of humanity.

Une glanced at Mariemaia, who was clearly enjoying every moment. Some children her age would have been frightened, but, Une, reasoned, Mariemaia had seen terrible things, and this was nothing bad--_Don't think about it, _she told herself. _You're here to enjoy yourself._

It wasn't difficult--the show was spectacular, an incredible feat of sight and sound, and, sometimes, through lavender-scented perfume, even scent. Everything was executed flawlessly.

Trowa came on soon after the opening, dressed in a flowing, shimmering outfit and wearing his old half-mask. His acrobatic skills were superb. He should have been a dancer, Une mused. He had the physique, petite but strong and flexible. He had the talent. He lacked the passion; he could have been successful, but to really be an _artist_, not a performer…no, his deadpan, expressionless manner wouldn't lend itself to art.

It did, however, build the tension in the knife-throwing act. Une wondered if calmly staring at death brought back memories of battles for Trowa. Several of the knives pierced the fabric and pinned him to the board. When he was pinned in several places, performers came and turned the board upside down as the audience gave a collective gasp while the knives came again.

Trowa was unflinching and unsmiling through it all.

***

When Lady Une approached him after the show, he was caught completely off-guard. The usual post-show excitement was fading; he had been about to change into ordinary clothes. Upon seeing her, he felt as if he were watching various emotions struggling to surface: confusion, anger, nervousness, and finally relief. He was glad to see someone from his past; it reminded him that he had one.

As for the little girl holding Une's hand, she was almost unrecognizable; he wouldn't have thought she was capable of smiling so happily or looking so sweet. As the two approached, Une smiled.

"Trowa."

"Lady Une. It's good to see you again."

"Good to see you, as well. The show was…exquisite."

"Thank you." Trowa glanced at Mariemaia, who had suddenly turned shy and was clinging close to Une.

"Mariemaia has something she'd like to say to you." She nudged the child forward. Mariemaia hesitated before walking to Trowa and pulling on his sleeve.

Trowa crouched down and Mariemaia cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered in his ear, "I'm sorry."

Trowa blinked. He hadn't expected this; but then, he hadn't expected anything. He turned to face her. Impulsively, he tucked a strand of her hair behind her hear. "It's okay," he told her, smiling. She smiled shyly, revealing dimples.

"Trowa? Who's this?"

He stood up. "Catherine, this is Lady Une and Mariemaia…" He looked inquiringly at Une.

"Kushrenada-Une," she filled in.

"Kushrenada-Une," he repeated. "Lady Une, Mariemaia, this is my sister, Catherine Bloom."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Catherine said politely, shaking Une's hand.

"Good to meet you, too," Une replied.

Catherine turned to Mariemaia. "Hey, you know what? I bet you'd like to meet the animals! How's that sound?"

Mariemaia grinned. "Great!" she said excitedly. She turned to Une. "Can I? Please?"

"Of course," Une said. "If it's no trouble."

"No trouble at all!" Catherine said gaily. She took Mariemaia by the hand and led her to the animal cages.

Trowa watched them go. "They look a little alike," he remarked. "They have the same eyes. Similar hair, too."

"You're right," Une said. "I wouldn't be surprised if they were related somewhere down the line, the Bartons and the Kushrenadas and the Blooms are old, rich families that would have stuck together in the world of high class. It's such a small world," she mused, "even with the Colonies; the names and families and lineages travel and mingle, separate and come back together."

Trowa knew she was referring to his choice of name. "Yeah," he said. "I know what you mean." He paused. "Mariemaia doesn't look a thing like her father."

"No," Une agreed. "She's Leia's child, that's for sure, in looks, at least. In personality, who can tell? She has a bit of Leia, a bit of Treize, a bit of Dekim, a bit of me, a bit of everyone and everything she's seen and heard and read and known. We're formed by the world we inhabit, and the world is formed by us."

Trowa nodded. "Mm."

"Because of this, children are more easily…_changed_ than adults," she continued. "For better or worse. Already she's so different from how she was just a little while ago. Her experience will leave a permanent mark; it will manifest itself in ways we can't yet see. All I can do is help her through whatever she must face.

"It's funny," she mused. "As Mariemaia heals, she becomes more and more child-like in her demeanor. When I met her, she was a miniature adult, or she pretended to be. Now… she's a kid again, but at the same time wiser than before She's having her childhood; those who miss out on childhood miss out on so much." She looked pointedly at Trowa. He met her gaze.

Childhood… the word brought back memories he hadn't thought of in years. They were carefully stored files in his brain, each one a brief, clear snapshot. He remembered, suddenly, Midii… he blinked.

Midii Une. Lady Une.

Yes, it was a small world. The laws of logic told him simultaneously that there had to be and there couldn't be a connection.

He spoke hesitantly. "Did you ever know a girl named Midii Une?"

Lady Une paled. "I… how did you… yes. Yes, I knew Midii. Midii… she was my half-sister. My father divorced my mother when I was very young. He married the woman who would become Midii's mother.

"I met Midii once, on one of my infrequent visits to my father. She was so young, but already so hard and cold. She ended up with many younger siblings, and my father eventually abandoned them as he had abandoned us and his first wife and first set of children, whom I had never met. He was a selfish man; he never paid any form of child support, though heaven knows he could have afforded it. We were all right, my mother and I; we had money. But Midii's mother had never been rich, and with so many children… I think Midii could always sense our father would leave them; that's why she was bitter from the start. She was one of those unlucky ones who lost her childhoos… Poor Midii. Why did you ask about her?"

"I thought about her, when you mentioned childhood," Trowa explained. "I knew her, briefly, many years ago. She stayed with the troop I was fighting with."

"I always wondered what happened to her," said Une.

"She betrayed us," Trowa said. "She died." There was no need to ask how.

Une nodded. "I see."

Silence followerd, out of awkwardness and respect, until Trowa said, "How have you been lately?"

She smiled. "I'm doing well, thank you. I have my ups and downs, but Mariemaia helps. She makes it worthwhile. How have _you_ been?"

He knew she wanted an honest answer, not the typical "Fine, thanks." "I don't know. I mean, sometimes I'm happy, sometimes I'm not, but all of it--feels fake, you know? Like, I'm not really feeling anything. I guess I'm numb, but at the same time, I _know _I'm numb, which is strange, because people don't usually know it…" He trailed off, frowning.

Une nodded. "We are all our own battlefields. Some people are down where the action is, fighting blindly. Others know the battle is going on, but they can't fight; they are spectators. Both types of people must take a little of the other part in order to win."

Trowa nodded. It made sense. His mind drifted back to Midii and what he had told her: _"We are the same." _Were they? They were lost souls, children without a childhood. But he had been dead and emotionless, and she was dead, eaten away by rage. Yes, they were the same, but they were different, too.

***

Catherine watched as Mariemaia studied the animals in awe. _What a cute little girl, _she thought. _One can hardly believe what she did…_ Children were so unpredictable.

She thought back to several months ago, when Trowa had come back to the circus without any memory of war. He had seemed so much younger then. She remembered one time when he had woken up in the middle of the night, calling for Quatre.

__

"Quatre!"

"Trowa? What's wrong?"

"I--I don't--"

"Did you have a bad dream?"

"I--I guess so. But Cathy, it didn't feel like a dream. It was different… like a memory…"

"Ssh, ssh, Trowa. It's okay. It was just a dream."

She had held him then like a little boy, rocking him back and forth until he calmed down. She almost wished he had stayed like that forever; the truth, however, had to be faced.

Mariemaia stared up at the elephant, who looked down at her, apparently decided she was very frightening, and backed away, trumpeting in fright. Mariemaia thought this was _very _funny and laughed in delight.

Catherine caught Lady Une's words. "That's the first time I've heard Mariemaia laugh."

"Cathy's good with children," Trowa responded.

Catherine turned to face him. He caught her eye and smiled. She smiled in return before turning back to Mariemaia. The little girl regarded her carefully and said, "You know what, Catherine?"

"What?"

"I like you."

Catherine grinned. "I like you, too."

**********

Notes: This chapter was partially inspired by the scene in the series where Duo finds Trowa, still suffering from amnesia, at the circus. I always thought Trowa looked like a little boy when Catherine came and protected him from the big scary Duo ^_~. Good news! From now on, I should be updating **every other Sunday! **Hurrah for schedules! As always, e-mail romancherubX@aol.com with comments, questions, requests to have me e-mail you each new part as it comes out, etc.

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing and all its characters is the property of Bandai, Sontsu Agency, and various other companies associated with it that are not in any way, shape or form connected to me. The fic "Seasons" is © Cassandra Lupos 2000-2002. Please ask permission before reposting.


	10. Music

**__**

Seasons

Chapter Ten: Music

Quatre waited eagerly for Sylvia. He was sitting in the park in which they had met two weeks ago. Since that first meeting, they had seen each other every day when Sylvia finished her classes. Quatre found that he spent his days looking forward to seeing her.

In those two weeks, there were few topics they hadn't discussed. Quatre knew Sylvia's favorite color (sea-blue), gemstone (aquamarine), place (her home in the French countryside), food (gnocchi), artist (Monet), opera (Mozart's _The Magic Flute_), and movie ("Cinema Paradiso"); her hobbies (voice and harp lessons, painting, and needlework), ambition (to do something with her art), and allergies (garlic and shellfish); he knew her mannerisms and habits, the way she moved and the inflections of her voice.

He knew, too, how he felt about her, or how he thought he felt about her, though to think of it reddened his cheeks. It should have been too early to feel the way he thought he felt; two weeks was no time at all, but his perception of "time" had been skewed since meeting Sylvia.

He did not know how Sylvia felt about him.

Quatre thought back to the previous Friday, when Sylvia had first mentioned her love for singing.

"I'd love to hear you some time," he had said.

She smiled. "I'd need accompaniment."

He thought of the room in the Winner house dedicated to musical pursuits. "Come with me," he said, standing up.

She looked puzzled. "Where are you going?"

"Just come on. Please?" His eyes looked pleadingly into hers.

"Okay…" She stood, smiling uncertainly.

He took her by the hand, blushing, and led her to his house. He saw her look of surprise as she took in the sheer size of the ornately decorated mansion. Despite its predominantly modern interior, from the outside it could be any old, well-kept example of European architecture.

Quatre made hasty introductions when they ran into Rhia and Cora. He escorted Sylvia to their "Conservatory."

The room was really a separate building, connected to the main structure by a hallway. The walls were imposingly high and arched to enhance the acoustics. They were lined with shelves bearing volumes of music, cabinets housing instruments of every variety from all the top makers, and portraits and busts of composers. The windows were tall and wide and the view was of a lush display of flora kept in prime condition by a team of professional gardeners.

Sylva looked around in awe. "Quatre, this is wonderful."

He sat at the black grand piano, grinning. "Any requests?"

She laughed. "I don't know. Suggest something."

He turned to the nearest shelf of music an began leafing through it. "Puccini? Wagner? Mozart?"

"Which Mozart?"

He took the book. "The Magic Flute."

She smiled. "That's my favorite opera."

"Really? What range are you?"

"Caloratura."

He was a little surprised--her voice seemed lower than would be expected of the highest range--but he leafed through the book, looking for a specific song. "If you wouldn't mind... I'd love to hear the Queen of the night aria from act two."

Her smile widened. "All right."

He leaned the music against the stand and began the introduction. He almost lost his place when Sylvia began to sing.

Quatre had grown used to Sylvia's presence as quietly striking: she spoke softly and moved delicately. When she sang, she became intensely powerful; her voice was a force somehow luminous in its clarity. As she reached the quick, highest notes, her voice was like starlight reflected off stalactites.

Quatre felt himself blushing again. He focused on the music, but out of the corner of his eye, he could feel rather than see how beautiful Sylvia was.

When the aria finished, Quatre turned to Sylvia. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes shone, revealing more exhilaration than her calm expression showed.

"That was…" he struggled for the right words. "Incredible." Incredible didn't begin to describe it. "You have an... amazing voice; it's really... Wonderful."

"Thank you," she said, a little shyly. "That aria... I really love it. I always feel so sorry for her--the Queen of the Night."

Quatre was puzzled. "Why?"

Sylvia frowned, trying to verbalize her thoughts. "Well, because... everyone sees her as the villain, but really, she was only doing what she thought was best for her daughter. She didn't understand... she did what she believed to be right."

"I never thought of it that way," Quatre said, nodding. He was not surprised; Sylvia tended to look at things in ways that most people missed.

"Neither did Mozart," she said, smiling.

Looking back on that day, Quatre smiled; he thought it was the first say he realized how he felt, or thought he felt, about Sylvia.

* * *

Sylvia walked slowly and with mixed feelings toward the spot at which she was to meet Quatre. She wanted to see him; she always wanted to see him. At the same time, she was dreading what she would have to say to him.

When she saw him waiting, she almost lost her nerve and turned around. He looked so beautifully sweet, sitting there, that she couldn't bear it; more than ever, she had to tell him and she couldn't, because it would drive them apart and she couldn't bear that, but neither could she bear to keep the secret.

He noticed her and smiled, and she smiled back, trying to keep her anxiety out of her face; Quatre was so perceptive, it would be hard.

"Hey," he said as she sat down beside him. "It's nice to see you."

"Nice to see you, too." So nice to see him; he couldn't possibly know how nice. She took a deep breath. "Listen, Quatre, I…" _Just tell him and get it over with._

"It's something wrong?" He looked at her, concern in his aqua-blue eyes.

__

Oh, God, please don't look at me like that, please don't be sweet. "I... maybe I'm just being cowardly, or selfish, but... I can't. It's too difficult. I can't be near you. I can't see you anymore." Tears leaped into her throat, but she fought them down. _I will _not _cry, I will _not _cry._

"But Sylvia... Why?"

She turned from him, unwilling to see his hurt eyes. "I just can't. Good-bye, Quatre." She stood up and started walking away.

"Sylvia? Sylvia! Wait! Please, come back!" He cried out for her desperately, but she ignored him, walking until she was out of sight.

Quatre watched her go in dismay. _Why is she doing this? Is it because I'm famous? Except she's dealt with famous people all her life. Because I'm a Gundam pilot? Because I know her grandfather's killer? Did I make her angry? Did I hurt her? Sylvia...!_

It was as if someone had ripped out his heart and caused him so much pain that now he could not feel anything. All he knew was that he wanted so badly to see her again, and now he would never see her, would never tell her...

No. Perhaps he would never see her, but he had to tell her what he had thought only moments before was impossible to ever speak out loud. After all, he had nothing to lose.

Quatre stood up and started walking swiftly to Sylvia's house. He had taken to walking her home in the afternoons, and his feet now followed the route automatically. He came to her familiar porch and rang the doorbell.

A tall brunette in jeans and a black t-shirt opened the door. She did a double take upon seeing Quatre, but he didn't give her a chance to say anything. "I need to speak with Sylvia, please," he said, firmly but politely.

The girl nodded. "All right, sir."

"Please don't tell her who I am," Quatre added, thinking that if Sylvia knew who it was, she may not come.

The girl nodded again. "Whatever you say, sir." She went back in the house, leaving him alone with his nerves.

When Sylvia came out, she looked so pained to see him, he wanted to cry, but he only swallowed and tried to decide exactly what to say.

"Quatre, I…" She trailed off helplessly.

"Sylvia, listen. I don't know what I did to make you mad, or to hurt you, or, I don't know, but whatever it was, I'm so, so sorry."

"Quatre, you didn't--I'm not--" Her voice gave nothing away, but Quatre knew she was on the verge of tears.

He went on. "And I know apologizing might not be enough. But Sylvia, I just want to tell you--because you should know--I... Sylvia, I've fallen in love with you." The words hung in the air.

Sylvia started to cry then, and she started to laugh. "Quatre, I... the reason--it was too hard, you see, for me, because... oh, God…" She flung her arms around his neck. "I love you, Quatre."

Quatre's eyes widened. "Sylvia?" He held her close. The two stayed for a long moment before releasing and regarding each other with soft, excited smiles.

"It doesn't seem real, does it?" Sylvia said. "Two weeks... it seems like so little time, and yet it's like I've known you forever."

Quatre grinned. "I know what you mean." There was a pause, and then--"Let's go out to dinner."

Sylvia raised her eyebrows in surprise. "What? Now?"

"Sure," Quatre answered. "Or maybe in a little while; it's still pretty early."

"I--well--okay," she agreed, smiling in bewilderment. "Let me just tell my aunt and change into something nicer. If you don't mind waiting, that is."

Quatre remembered that Sylvia was staying with her aunt and cousin; the girl that had opened the door must have been her cousin. "I don't mind."

"All right," Sylvia said. "I'll be quick." She went into her house.

Quatre was, luckily, patient. Even so, by the time Sylvia reappeared more than a half hour later, he was convinced that the male and female definitions of "quick" differed greatly. She wore a white silk blouse and medium-length pale-blue skirt.

"You look beautiful," he said.

She smiled. "Thank you."

They walked for a while with their arms around each other's waists, sometimes engaging in aimless conversation, other times merely enjoying their closeness. Eventually their stroll took them to a little Italian restaurant that did not require reservations, and they sat down to a very pleasant dinner.

They both ordered the gnocchi, which Quatre had never tasted and found delicious; but he could have been eating rotting twigs and he scarcely would have noticed so thrilled he was to be sitting with Sylvia.

The restaurant had a wonderful atmosphere. The smells of rich food drifted in from the kitchen. In the corner, a violinist played romantic melodies.

"You know," Quatre murmured, "that time you sang for me... I think that's when I realized I loved you."

"Really?" Sylvia sounded surprised. "It was the same for me... I just felt, performing the same song, so close to you…"

"Like the music was binding us together," he said, nodding.

"Yes," she said, almost whispering.

By the time they left, it was dark and the stars looked down on Quatre and Sylvia as they walked back to her house, drunk on fresh love. The walk back was quieter and slower than the walk to the restaurant had been. They were content, at peace with the entire cosmos.

As they stood on Sylvia's porch, reluctant to bid each other good night, Sylvia knew intuitively that Quatre wanted to kiss her but was afraid to act. "It's okay, Quatre," she breathed, leaning close. He smiled, and then they drew near and their lips met.

The kiss was of the sweetest light, a silent duet of love, a manifestation of the delight in each other that binds tightly the eternal song of the stars.

********

Notes: I've always thought that Quatre and Sylvia look eerily alike. I was supposed to have this up a week ago, wasn't I? Yeah, well… *cough* We went away, with no Internet access, and only now I had time to get it up… that said… The next part will be up as originally scheduled, on Sunday the Fifteenth of September. As always…e-mail romancherubX@aol.com with comments, questions, requests to have me e-mail you each new part as it comes out, etc.

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing and all its characters is the property of Bandai, Sontsu Agency, and various other companies associated with it that are not in any way, shape or form connected to me. "Cinema Paradiso" and "The Magic Flute" are copyright of their respective creators. The fic "Seasons" is © Cassandra Lupos 2000-2002. Please ask permission before reposting.


	11. Blood

Note: Mild blood warning (as you may gather from the title). Not really anything to take notice of unless you're hyper-hypersensitive. Also, there's an implied September 11th reference, again, nothing to worry about unless you're very sensitive, but some people may want to be warned.

****

Seasons

Chapter Eleven: Blood

Duo was running through space, amidst mangled corpses and charred limbs. Starlight glinted on scraps of metal, the remains of his opponents. He could see the scythe… the explosion…

"What's wrong, Duo?"

Duo stopped short. "Q-Quatre?" The blonde was standing before him, smiling kindly.

"Of course it's me, Duo," he said. "Why are you upset? You know what to do."

Yes, he did know what to do. Duo nodded, accepting the sick reality. He gripped the dagger, running his finger along the cold steel before raising it in preparation. He took a deep breath and plunged the weapon into Quatre's side, ripping warm flesh and unleashing blood.

Quatre's smile turned cruel. The skin melted off his face, revealing a skull--a death's head. Duo reeled from the stench of decay. The skull moved its jaws in a parody of speech.

"Yes, you did what you had to do," it mocked, speaking at once with Quatre's voice and a myriad of other voices: young and old, male and female, wicked and innocent, even Duo's own. "You always did what you had to do, your duty. So lucky for you that your duty involved slaughter of innocents, death of your friends, mass destruction and murderous bloodshed. So lucky your duty has always led you to exactly what you wanted to do."

Duo shook his head, trembling with his entire body. He moaned, wordlessly at first before repeating one desperate syllable.

"No… No, no, no. No, no, no, no no no no no no NO! No! No!"

"No!"

Duo sat upright in his bed, sweating and gasping for breath. The dream replayed itself in his mind, and powerful nausea struck him. He threw off his damp sheet, ran to the bathroom, and vomited in the toilet. He flushed with a shaking hand.

Oh, God, the dream had been so… he could still hear the terrible voice, all the horrifying voices… and Quatre. He had killed Quatre. He had killed--oh, God, he had pierced that warm softness, brought down the sickle of death on yet another life, twisted his harsh dagger, spilled the blood… the blood, oh, God, Quatre's blood was all over his hands, the sticky, malodorous crimson, staining his fingers, he had to wash it off, had to…. He turned on the hot water and thrust his hands under the faucet.

The water was so pure, but he could still see the blood, Quatre's blood… he scrubbed his hands together in a fury, anxious to rid himself of the blood…

The water burned. He drew back, hurriedly turning it off.

The steam had fogged the mirror. As it receded, Duo could see his haggard reflection. He gave a quietly hysterical laugh. "You're losing it, Maxwell," he whispered to the mirror, a despairing smile on his face. "You're really losing it."

***

In the three weeks since Heero had come to stay with Duo, he had taken to doing little and saying even less. He worked efficiently for Duo when he had to; other than that, he would sit for hours without moving, trying not to think. It was easier sometimes if he turned on the television, staring at it without focusing his eyes. He watched the news indifferently, changing the channel if the Vice Foreign Minister appeared. He scarcely ate, and he took long, dreamless naps. At first, he spoke to Duo occasionally, but as time wore on, he ceased speaking entirely.

Duo, on the other hand, was very active. He went at his work determined and almost angry. When he was not working, he often went for long walks. He despised silence and would play loud music for hours at a time. He listened to groups from the 1960s, particularly the Beatles, the 1970s, and the turn of that century; he switched from mellow tunes to heavy metal.

He liked renting movies; occasionally he would get sleazy comedies, but he was developing a preference for war movies. He watched them intently, and as soon as they ended he would fill up the silences with restless chatter.

"Those Romans," he'd say, "they used to watch people, the gladiators, kill each other for _fun._ They got _pleasure_ out of it--can you imagine? Watching them, and the lions against the slaves and the Christians and all, they _liked _seeing the jaws close down--and the floor was sand, to absorb the blood, but it must have been all over, not just blood, but substance, organs and--it must have smelled awful, sitting in the front."

Or, "When they dropped the bomb, Hiroshima and all, the effects lasted for years. It was so effective, the war didn't last too long after that, so you'd think that nowadays…. But there were people in the hospitals for years, with their fingernails and their hair growing like crazy, and all sorts of things wrong with their skin, from the radiation. So maybe that's why no one used nuclear weapons in our--too many consequences…. It's worse than destruction, because with destruction you move on and fix things, but with radiation you just have to wait for the victims to die."

Or, "Six million Jews, Heero… six million Jews, and Polish people and homosexuals and gypsies and all sorts of people. Except they wouldn't just kill them, in the concentration camps, they'd work them to death…. Sick, sick people. And it wasn't just the victims, it was the soldiers trying to stop it and even the Germans who didn't know _what_ was going on, brainwashed by the media."

Or, "They used to use horses in wars. My God… and it used to be about fighting people face to face, sticking your sword right into them, and the bayonet charge… even with muskets and rifles and guns, it was still just people…. I guess wars have become more humane, huh? Just levers and buttons… and no horses, right?"  


Or, "Terrorists, they called us. But we never kidnapped anyone, never crashed planes into… we kept, or tried to keep civilians out of it. And after a while, people knew it was coming, no surprises. But they weren't supposed to, that's not what they… the people in charge, what they wanted. The _wanted _us to be terrorists. But how could anyone want that, after--?" He stopped, a distant look in his eyes, before going out for a walk.

Heero watched and heard it all as he did everything else: passive. In spite of himself, however, he could feel something stirring beneath his frozen exterior: shifting feelings of concern. He tried to ignore it and push it away, but he couldn't ignore what was right in front of his eyes. He knew Duo slept few hours a night at best; he hesitated more and more before going to bed. He ate no more than Heero did, but was never still, always moving. His eyes were tired and constantly shadowed by dark rings like bruises, standing out against his pale skin. He was getting paler, and it was especially noticeable against his dark clothes. He was skinnier, too; his cheeks were drawn, and bones jutted out at his collar and shoulders.

Duo had just returned from a walk when Heero spoke to him. "Duo, I…" he began. The words struggled to get out of his throat; he hadn't spoken for over a week. He tried again. "Duo, I'm worried about you."

"Why, you can talk after all!" Duo mocked.

"I mean it," Heero continued. Speech was flowing more easily now. "I really am worried."

Duo laughed, but Heero thought he could detect nervousness. "You? Worry about me? Why the hell would you worry about _me_?"

"I just--you don't sleep," said Heero.

"I sleep!" Duo said defensively.

"Not enough," Heero insisted. "You barely eat."

"What, you think I'm anorexic or something?" Duo demanded.

"No, I think…" Heero stopped. "I don't know, I'm just…"

Duo studied him. "You think I'm messed up over the war, don't you?"

"Well, yes," Heero said. "Not just that, I mean, the--" The word caught in his throat. "The killing."

Duo's expression darkened. "I don't believe this. I can't believe _you're_ lecturing _me_ about--Look at you! You're living a non-life! You practically don't exist! And you're calling _me_ messed up?" He laughed disbelievingly. "And besides, even if it were true, why would you care? You don't care about anyone or anything. You're the most selfish person I've ever met! So wrapped up in avoiding everything, you don't even notice that you--that the people who care about your pathetic excuse for a life--they're suffering! Because of you! Because you're--" He broke off, breathing hard. _Selfish. That's what it was: a selfish war._

Heero looked at Duo uncertainly, filing away his words. "Duo?"

Visibly calmer now, Duo turned to him. "I'm sorry, Heero. I just… but anyway, I'm not messed up for life or anything. I'm not in denial." _The people at the church… you leeched off them and led them to death. You were only upset that there was no one to provide for you anymore._

No, that's not it. No, I…

"I accept the fact that I did things I'm not proud of," he continued, his voice steady and his hands trembling.

__

Duo was running through space, amidst mangled corpses and charred limbs. Starlight glinted on scraps of metal, the remains of his opponents. He could see the scythe… the explosion…

"I know that I killed countless people."

__

So lucky for you that your duty involved slaughter of innocents, death of your friends, mass destruction and murderous bloodshed… exactly what you wanted…

"I know that many of them were soldiers like myself."

__

Yes, plunge the dagger right in… do you see the skull, the grinning death's-head? You love it, don't you? It fills you with delight and evil pleasure.

"I know I caused damage that will take a long time to fix."

__

"What's wrong, Duo? You know what to do."

Better to live on rage, no room for terror, grief, mourning… he really was a god; only gods could do so much damage with so little care. But God had cried, hadn't he? When the Egyptians drowned in the sea…

"I know that I should have questioned my own motives further."

__

You did what you had to do, did what you wanted to do, truth doesn't matter, just that you fulfilled your bloodlust…

He could see the explosion, the blood… but there wasn't any blood, no, mobile suits didn't bleed, after all…so much easier that way…

"I know all that, and I accept it."

__

He could se himself, so many versions of himself… the joker, the warrior, the murderer… he could see himself telling these truths with such calm… body, mind and soul blurring together and fly apart… body, staying still but trembling…mind, calculating and controlling… and soul…. Soul flies above it all, dying…

Do what you want, kill who you want, it's all the same in the end… everyone dies but the Angel of Death… angel, god, demon…

Duo was running through space, amidst mangled corpses and charred limbs…

"What's wrong, Duo?"

Lucky… lucky it's easier now, lucky it's just working a machine, lucky it's what you want…

"What's wrong, Duo?"

"So nothing's wrong. I'm okay." He stared at Heero defiantly.

Heero shook his head. "Duo…"

"Look, I just told you, I'm fine!" Duo exploded. "You want someone to worry about? Worry about yourself. You say I don't sleep? You do nothing _but_ sleep! You don't eat any more than I do, and this is the first time you've spoken in days!" He sighed and gave Heero a rueful smile. "You don't need to worry about me, okay?"

  
Heero said nothing. He eyed Duo warily with troubled eyes.

Duo looked at his hands. They were still shaking. His heartbeat reverberated throughout his chest, and his blood felt hot in his veins. "I'm going for a walk," he announced.

"But, Duo…" Heero protested.

"See ya!" The door slammed.

Heero was alone. The feeling shouldn't have been new to him: he had been alone all his life, and he had always wanted it that way. Except, he realized, he could have chosen differently, at some points. There were people who would have stayed with him.

__

"The people who care about you pathetic excuse for a life--they're suffering!"

Duo's words came back to him as a harsh reminder. And then, harsher: _"You're the most selfish person I've ever met!"_

"Selfish." Heero said the word aloud, slowly feeling the syllables. He had never before considered it. _Though,_ he thought, _a selfish person wouldn't, would he?_

Heero had seen Duo's trembling hands, just as he had seen his pale face and dark eyes, his always-made bed, and even his wet hair and clean kitchen on that first morning. He had those mental snapshots, and together they formed a picture of Duo as--what? Disturbed? Depressed? Angry? _Needing,_ Heero thought. _Needing help._

Selfish. The word tumbled in Heero's head. Selfish people were always alone because they isolated themselves. Duo was isolating himself further and further away from the world, but Duo wasn't a person to be left alone. By enclosing himself in darkness, he was fighting his own instinct to reach out. Heero would make sure that Duo wouldn't be alone.

***

The boy intrigued her from the start. Even doing something as average as walking in the park, there was something about him that caught her eye. _That braid would catch anyone's eye, _she thought, amused, but there was a brooding intensity to him that seemed beyond the usual teen angst. He was dressed entirely in black, enhancing his dark look.

Added to that was the fact that she had never seen him, and she knew every child at the local high school by face if not by name. He could have been older, she supposed, but he certainly looked to be in high school. _Well, only one way to find out._

Firm in her resolve, she tucked a strand of her graying hair behind her ear and set off to speak with him. She put her gold watch in her purse beore approaching him and asking, "Excuse me, have you got the time?"

She had surprised him, she noted. But he checked his own watch--_Black, of course,_ she thought, and smiled--and told her, "Four thirty-seven." Like magic, his brooding air vanished to be replaced with a charming smile.

"Thank you," she said, then frowned slightly, as if puzzled. "I haven't seen you at the school. Are you new? Or visiting? I teach drama there," she added.

"Neither, really," he said, still smiling. "I'm studying at home, planning to take a high school equivalency test and apply for college in the fall. I'm Duo Maxwell." He said this last as if just remembering that he had a name.

She shook his outstretched hand. "Dorriane Wilson. Nice to meet you, Duo." Only her years of training with actors kept her face from showing symptoms of surprise. _Duo Maxwell, the Gundam pilot? That explains the brooding, but…. _She looked at the smiling boy in front of her, thinking that, had she not known better, she never would have guessed that he could have been any form of soldier, much less a Gundam pilot.

His smile, though, was now a little clouded, and he seemed to be trying to recall something. "It's a pleasure to meet you, too, Ms. Wilson."

"Dorriane," she corrected. "Please. All my students call me Dorriane. When I first came to the school, I couldn't get used to being called 'Ms. Wilson.' I was too used to working with professional actors."

"Were you in movies?" he asked.

"I directed," she answered.

He nodded, comprehension broadening his smile. "That must be it. I _though_ your name sounded familiar." He paused, then said, "If you don't mind my asking, why'd you leave?"

"I don't mind," she said. "The truth is… the actors I worked with were wonderful. Brilliant, even. As their director, my job was to help them reach their maximum potential. Oftentimes--too often--it was already known, but all those involved, just what their potential was, where their limits lay. I didn't want that.

"I wanted to--sculpt and form actors that still were far from their limits, so that I could help them discover these limits. With professionals, I broke limits, but always there was this sense of where the limits were or had been. I wanted to deal with the unknown.

"So I became a teacher, and I'm happy as can be. I love watching my students as they develop as thespians. I've never regretted it--well, maybe once or twice when they were especially rowdy," she admitted laughingly.

"That's cool," he said in admiration.

She was amazed at his ability to seem so carefree. She made up her mind and reached into her purse. "We're putting on _Romeo and Juliet _soon. Auditions are Wednesday in the auditorium at four. Study this," she said, pulling out a copy of the play and handing it to him, "and be there."

Duo took it, but he was bewildered. "But I'm not a student."

"It doesn't matter." _At least, I'll see to it that it doesn't matter._

  
"Well, I guess," he said.

She grinned at him. "You have talent. Trust me on this." She winked.

"Okay," he said, more enthusiastically. "I'll be there."

********

Note: I have been waiting SO long to write this chapter; it was one of the first scenes that popped into my head when I was first thinking up "Seasons." Not much else to say, really…As always, e-mail romancherubX@aol.com with comments, questions, requests to have me e-mail you each new part as it comes out, etc.

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing and all its characters is the property of Bandai, Sontsu Agency, and various other companies associated with it that are not in any way, shape or form connected to me. The fic "Seasons" is © Cassandra Lupos 2000-2002. Please ask permission before reposting.


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